"And you always come around eventually," Gideon replied.
From the counter behind them came the distinct sound of a ceramic cup clicking against a saucer. A calculated, deliberate sound.
Gideon's eyes moved from June’s face to a point just past her left shoulder, then back.
"Your apron pocket," he murmured, his lips barely moving. "Is your phone in it?"
"Yes."
"Keep your hand on it. If I tell you to move, you move. Back of the diner, through the kitchen, door into the alley. Don't stop."
June felt something strange happen in her chest. It wasn't calm, exactly, but it was the opposite of the free fall she had been in all morning. It was traction.
"Who are they?" she whispered, pretending to adjust a salt shaker on the nearest table.
"The men who arranged the Hensley situation," Gideon said softly.
June’s blood ran cold. The recording. She hadn't played it for anyone. She hadn't spoken the name Hensley aloud.
"How do you—"
"Your father," Gideon interrupted, the warmth leaving his fake-parental tone, replaced by military steel. "He didn't die in a car crash, June. He found out what the men in suits do. And he left me behind to make sure they never did it to you."