When I finally woke up, I was waiting for scrambled and toasted eggs on the kitchen table, next to an envelope containing three hundred dollars and one direction.
“My friend Martha owns the restaurant on the main street,” said Aunt May. He needs help and will not ask questions. Until you decide what to do, use your mother’s maiden name.
Three days later, Lena Harris disappeared.
Lena Morgan started working at Martha’s Diner.
PART 2 — THE LIFE I BUILT IN SECRET
The restaurant was small and ramshackle, with cracked cabins and a menu that hadn’t changed in decades. But the coffee was strong, the customers friendly and no one treated me with disdain.
I served drinks, brought dishes, cleaned tables and gradually remembered what it felt like to be respected for my work.
At night, I would sit on Aunt May’s porch and watch the sun sink into the ocean. Gradually, my shoulders relaxed. I started sleeping all night. I laughed without wondering if anyone was recording me.
Six weeks after my arrival, a stranger staggered into the restaurant and collapsed near the counter.
His shirt was stained with blood from a wound on his side. For a moment of terror, I thought Kyle had found me and had prepared another cruel performance.
Then the man looked at me in unmistakable pain.
“Help,” he whispered.
I took clean towels, pressed them against the wound, and told Martha to call the emergency services.
“Stay awake,” I said. What’s your name?
“Grant.”
