At 2:47 in the Morning, the Waitress Chose a Killer. By Dawn, She Learned He Had Been Saving Her All Along.

Vincent Moretti sat in his usual corner booth, back to the wall, eyes on the door.

For two years, he had come into Rosie’s every night between midnight and one, ordered black coffee, never asked for a menu, and left before three.

He tipped in cash.

He spoke softly.

He dressed like a man attending a funeral that never ended.

Everyone on the south side knew continue reading …