Anyone who knew my mother agreed on one thing:
Evelyn Mercer would never simply walk away without telling somebody.
I went home immediately.
I spoke to the police repeatedly.
They asked questions, filed reports, and told us they were looking into it.
But there was no obvious evidence of a crime.
Mom was an adult.
And every possible lead seemed to disappear almost as soon as it appeared.
We considered hiring a private investigator.
We couldn’t afford one.
So I did the only thing I knew how to do.
I made posters.
Hundreds of them.
I taped my mother’s photograph everywhere I could think of.
Supermarkets.
Bus stations.
Coffee shops.
Laundromats.
Restaurants.
All over campus.
I carried extra copies inside my bag in case I met someone who might recognize her.
Before every shift, I checked my phone hoping someone had finally called.
Nobody did.
For four months, there was nothing.
Then came that Friday night.
A couple was seated in my section shortly after seven.
They looked wealthy.
Not flashy exactly, but comfortable in the effortless way some people are.
They told me they were celebrating their anniversary.
The woman was polite.
So was her husband.
Actually, they were kinder than many customers I dealt with.
But something about them seemed distracted.
The man kept checking his phone beneath the table.
Every time he looked at it, his wife stopped speaking and watched his expression.
Still, they ordered as though they were determined to enjoy the evening.
Oysters.
Filet mignon.
Lobster.
Several cocktails.
And a bottle of Bordeaux we kept in the locked wine cabinet.
By the time they turned down dessert, their total came to $407.63.
“Could we have the check?” the man asked.
He looked at his phone again.
I placed the leather folder beside him and walked away to deliver drinks to another table.
I was gone maybe three minutes.
When I came back, the booth was empty.
So was the payment tray.
At first, I assumed they had stepped outside.
Then I checked the restrooms.
Nothing.
I hurried toward the front entrance.
They were gone.
My stomach dropped.
I went straight to my manager’s office.
Jett barely looked up when I rushed inside.
“Table twelve left,” I said. “They didn’t pay.”
He sighed.
