Chapter 1 - The Empty Chair
At 10:45 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, Gideon Hale discovered there were certain things forty million dollars could not buy.
One of them was an empty chair.
The Wellington was glowing behind sheets of freezing rain, its towering windows filled with candlelight, champagne glasses, diamonds, and people pretending the coming year would be different from the last.
Gideon stood inside the entrance in a black cashmere coat that cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
Every table was occupied.
Philip, the maître d’, looked as though someone had placed a gun against his ribs.
“Mr. Hale, if we had known—”
“You didn’t.”
“No, sir.”
“So stop apologizing.”
Philip swallowed.
Beyond him, Gideon recognized half the dining room.
A city councilman who owed him money.
A police commander whose promotion had depended on a favor.
Two developers who had once spent six hours negotiating for Gideon’s approval to build along the western waterfront.
Any one of them would have surrendered a table if Gideon merely looked in their direction.
That was the problem.
People had spent twenty years making space for Gideon Hale because they were afraid not to.
Tonight he did not want fear to buy him dinner.
“Forget it.”
Philip blinked.
“Sir?”
“Happy New Year, Philip.”
Gideon turned and walked back outside.
Snow had become slush.
Ten minutes later his Italian shoes were wet.
Twenty minutes later his coat had begun collecting ice along the shoulders.
Thirty minutes later the towers of downtown had disappeared behind him.
He should have called his driver.
Harvey would have returned instantly.
But Harvey had three children waiting in the suburbs, and Gideon had already watched the man check his phone four times during their last meeting.
So he had sent him home.
It had seemed strangely generous at the time.
Now Gideon was beginning to suspect generosity was inconvenient.
At 11:32 p.m., he found the Copper Kettle Diner.
The neon sign buzzed above a dirty window.
Two letters were dead.
The place looked like somewhere optimism went to be quietly buried.
Gideon entered anyway.
Warm air struck his face.
Burned coffee.
Fryer grease.
Bleach.
Behind the counter stood a woman who looked almost as exhausted as he felt.
She was twenty-eight, though Gideon would learn that later.
Her brown hair was twisted into a loose knot, and she wore a pale-blue waitress uniform beneath a gray cardigan. A pencil sat behind one ear. Her sneakers were worn almost smooth.
At the far end of the diner, a little boy in a faded red sweater was drawing with a purple crayon.
The woman immediately shifted slightly between Gideon and the child.
Gideon noticed.
He noticed everything.
“Kitchen’s closed,” she said.
Her tone was careful but not frightened.
“I’ve got coffee. Three muffins that survived Christmas. And one slice of cherry pie that might technically qualify as a weapon.”
Gideon looked at her.
She looked back.
He almost smiled.
“Coffee.”
“Black?”
“Yes.”
“I figured.”
She pointed toward the empty booths.
“Pick your kingdom.”
Gideon chose the booth in the middle.
Not near the boy.
Not near the door.
The woman brought a thick white mug and poured coffee.
“Jo,” she said, tapping the plastic name tag pinned to her uniform. “In case you need to complain.”
“Gideon.”
“In case I need to complain?”
“Yes.”
That surprised her.
She walked away.
Gideon wrapped both hands around the coffee.
Pain flashed through his right knuckles.
He had split them earlier that evening during a disagreement at the docks.
Jo noticed the dried blood.
Of course she did.
Gideon expected the familiar response.
The slight retreat.
The sideways glance toward an exit.
Instead, she reached into her apron and placed an alcohol wipe on the table.
“You’re bleeding on my clean booth.”
Gideon stared at the packet.
Then at her.
“Clean?”
“Relatively.”
Something moved at the corner of his mouth.
Jo caught it.
“There. You almost looked human.”
“That would damage my reputation.”
“I’ll keep it quiet.”
She returned to the counter.
Gideon cleaned his knuckles.
From the back booth came a child’s voice.
“Mom?”
“What?”
“Purple broke.”
“Use green.”
“Spaceships aren’t green.”
“Alien spaceships are.”
The boy considered this seriously.
“Okay.”
Jo leaned against the counter.
For just a second, exhaustion overtook her.
Gideon watched her close her eyes.
Then she opened them again and kept moving.
“You working alone?”
She looked over.
“Roy left.”
“Who’s Roy?”
“Cook.”
“And the boy?”
“My son.”
Gideon glanced toward him.
“Sammy.”
Jo’s expression changed immediately.
Not enough for most people to notice.
Enough for Gideon.
“Six?”
“Six.”
“He should be home.”
“Yes.”
There was no defensiveness in her answer.
Only fatigue.
“My babysitter discovered a mysterious illness at exactly the same time her boyfriend’s New Year’s party started.”
Gideon looked toward Sammy again.
“He’s been here all night?”
“Six hours.”
“You couldn’t leave?”
“Rent is due tomorrow.”
There was something profoundly unfamiliar about how directly she said it.
No embarrassment.
No request for sympathy.
Just mathematics.
Rent existed.
Money did not.
Therefore she worked.
Gideon understood transactions.
He respected that.
At 11:47, Sammy appeared beside Gideon’s booth.
Jo immediately straightened.
“Sammy.”
The boy ignored her.
He stared at Gideon’s injured hand.
“Did you punch somebody?”
Gideon looked at him.
Jo closed her eyes.
“Sammy.”
“What?”
“We do not ask customers whether they punched people.”
“Why?”
“Because normal people don’t.”
Sammy pointed.
“He did.”
Gideon said, “Yes.”
Jo stared at him.
“You’re helping enormously.”
Sammy climbed onto the opposite bench without invitation.
“Did you win?”
Gideon considered the question.
“I suppose.”
“Then why does your hand look worse than mine?”
Gideon looked down.
The boy had a point.
“Winning is sometimes expensive.”
Sammy nodded as though Gideon had revealed an important principle.
Jo approached.
“Sorry.”
“He’s fine.”
“He interrogates people.”
“That’s useful.”
“Not when they’re strangers.”
Sammy suddenly asked, “Do you have kids?”
“No.”
“A wife?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Dog?”
“No.”
Sammy frowned.
“That sounds boring.”
Jo covered her face.
Gideon felt something unfamiliar rise in his chest.
It took him a moment to identify it.
Laughter.
Quiet.
Rusty.
But laughter.
Jo lowered her hands.
For a second, she simply stared at him.
The frightening stranger in the expensive coat had disappeared.
A tired man remained.
Sammy slid from the booth.
“Mom, it’s almost midnight.”
Jo checked the clock.
11:56.
She turned on an old television above the counter.
A downtown crowd filled the screen.
People packed beneath fireworks waiting for the countdown.
Jo collected three paper cups.
She poured sparkling apple juice from a bottle beneath the counter.
Gideon watched.
“Big celebration?”
“Budget champagne.”
Sammy climbed into his booth.
Jo sat opposite him.
There was one empty place beside the boy.
Gideon remained alone.
Sammy looked across the diner.
Then at the empty seat.
“Mr. Gideon?”
Jo’s expression tightened.
“What?”
“You can sit here.”
Gideon looked at the boy.
Sammy shrugged.
“You’re by yourself.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Jo looked uncomfortable.
“Sammy, Mr. Gideon may want privacy.”
“No.”
Gideon stood.
Jo looked surprised.
He crossed the diner and stopped beside the booth.
“You sure?”
Sammy scooted closer to the window.
“Mom says nobody should start New Year’s alone.”
Jo stared at her son.
“I said that?”
“Last year.”
Apparently she had forgotten.
Gideon sat.
Jo poured him apple juice.
“I assume you can survive something without alcohol.”
“I’ll try.”
The television crowd began counting.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Sammy shouted every number.
Jo laughed.
Gideon watched both of them.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Outside, fireworks began too early.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Happy New Year!”
Sammy threw both arms upward.
Jo kissed his forehead.
Then she looked across the table.
“Happy New Year, Gideon.”
He had received New Year wishes from senators.
Mayors.
Actors.
Men worth billions.
None had sounded quite like that.
“Happy New Year, Jo.”
For one minute, Gideon Hale forgot who he was supposed to be.
Then the bell above the diner door rang.
A man entered.
Dark coat.
Baseball cap.
He did not approach the counter.
He looked directly at Gideon.
Then placed a white envelope beside the door.
And left.
Gideon’s warmth disappeared.
Jo noticed immediately.
“What is it?”
“Stay here.”
He crossed the diner.
Picked up the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Taken twenty minutes earlier.
It showed Gideon sitting alone at the Copper Kettle.
Someone had circled his head in red.
On the back were five words.
MIDNIGHT MAKES WIDOWS AND ORPHANS.
Gideon slowly looked toward Jo and Sammy.
Jo was not his wife.
Sammy was not his son.
But whoever had taken that photograph did not know that.
And suddenly Gideon understood the cost of accepting one empty chair.
Someone had seen him sit down.
Someone had seen him smile.
May you like
And in Gideon Hale’s world, affection was never mistaken for weakness.
It was identified as leverage.
