“Get out.”
Naomi Carter froze.
For half a second, the words seemed almost unreal.
The restaurant continued moving around her. Silverware touched porcelain. A waiter hurried toward the kitchen carrying three steaming plates. Someone near the bar laughed. Soft jazz played beneath the low hum of conversation.
But at Table Twelve, everything had stopped.
Naomi stood perfectly still.
A bottle of wine rested in her right hand. Her left held the small black order pad she had carried through six years of waiting tables.
Across from her sat Victor Hale.
At sixty-two, Victor had accumulated enough money to make ordinary people uncomfortable talking about it. He owned several office buildings in San Francisco, had investments scattered across technology and real estate, and maintained the kind of social network that allowed him to call politicians by their first names.
He was also the sort of man who believed wealth made him important everywhere.
Tonight, he was entertaining three businessmen from Shanghai.