Knife's Edge

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"Jolly's was broken into on Saturday," Ellie explains, her voice weary.

It's Monday evening, now – a day on since what Ellie and I have aptly named the 'Megan-gate' fiasco – and we're basically both zombies, by this point. For some reason, today has been just as hectic at the café (if not, more so) and it's only been within the last hour that things have started to wind down for the night.

All morning, Paul, Ellie and I had been wondering the exact same thing: What the heck is going on?

One busy day is a coincidence; two is a correlation. We just hadn't known what was causing it.

That is, until Carl turned up for his lunchtime shift and gave Paul the lowdown. At some point, Paul managed to fill Ellie in, as well. So, it seems I'm the last to find out.

"Apparently, the place is completely trashed," Ellie continues as she loads mugs into the dishwasher. Thankfully, the plumber came out early so that was one less problem for us today. "Some gang bullshit, I think. Carl walked past on his way to work and says the front door has been tagged as a warning."

Jolly's – a small diner that lives a few streets over from Wilson's – is the closest rival we have. Despite the name, the place is pretty shady. It's known best for its illicit dealings of contraband – weapons, mostly, although I've heard rumours that they also sell crystal meth on the sly.

All hearsay, of course – but I wouldn't be surprised if the rumours are true.

The hospitality side of the business is probably more of a front than anything, but the owner, Jolly (I don't know his real name), is known to make a mean milkshake. If the place is closed – and from the sounds of it, it could be for a while – then our foot-traffic will likely double until it reopens.

"Things are going to be pretty crazy here, for a while," Ellie mumbles, voicing my exact same thought aloud. She closes the dishwasher with a little more force than necessary, pressing the 'Start' button.

Ignoring the few tables still waiting to be cleared, I lean a hip against the counter and watch my friend for a moment. There's something mildly concerning about the way she frowns at the machine in front of her. She chews on her bottom lip until she notices my gaze, her mouth lifting into a small smile as her eyes meet mine.

Something's wrong.

Something has been wrong with Ellie for a few weeks now. At first, I had thought she would open up in her own time but, the more she chooses not to, the more I start to doubt she ever will. She may be a talker at heart, but she obviously doesn't want to talk about this – whatever it is that's bothering her.

"What's wrong, El?" I have to ask because – despite it making me a hypocrite – I hate that she won't open up.

Her smile slips and she glances towards the kitchen, her expression suddenly anxious.

Is it Paul?

Has she seen what I saw in the kitchen yesterday? Is she worried that her dad isn't coping – that the café is slowly making him miserable?

Because that's definitely what I got from yesterday's exchange.

Has Ellie noticed it, too?

"Nothing," she sighs eventually. She turns from the dishwasher to lean her forearms across the top of the counter, her eyes surveying the café and the few tables still waiting to be cleared. With barely an hour left before closing, we should (hopefully) have no more mad rushes for the night. She sighs again. "Everything's fine."

But, quite clearly, it's not.

"El, seriously..." I say, nudging her with my elbow as I copy her stance, leaning against the counter next to her. "You can talk to me. I'm your friend."