“Yeah, you do know me,” he said, his voice softer now. “It’s me… Roman.”
The name hit me like a freight train. Roman!
Memories of a younger version of him flooded back. He’d also worked at the diner nearly two decades ago. Roman had been one of the line cooks, a pleasant and easygoing man whose charm won over customers and staff alike.
And then the memory that burned brightest: the day he was fired.
“You stole that money,” I blurted, the accusation tumbling out before I could stop it. “You cleared out the register and the tip jar!”
His expression darkened, but he didn’t flinch. “No, I didn’t take that money, ma’am. I can’t prove it, I wish I could, but I’m not a thief and never stole from the diner.”
There was something in his face that made me want to believe him, but how could I? My boss, Carl, had found the money in Roman’s backpack. Roman had pleaded his innocence then, too, but the truth was obvious.
Or was it?
“Please, believe me,” Roman continued. “I was earning a good salary so why would I need to steal? And even if I had taken the money, why would I be so obvious about it? I was set up!”
He moved closer as he held out his hands. “I lost everything after Carl fired me. Even Miranda left me…”
