Chapter 2 - The Poisoned Fork
“Stop!”
Claire’s voice tore through the heavy silence of the dining room.
She slammed into the heavy mahogany doors so hard the wood splintered, her chest heaving as she stumbled onto the Persian rug.
At the head of the long table, Adrian Cross froze.
The silver fork was exactly one inch from his mouth. On it rested a perfectly seared scallop, glazed in the truffle oil Julian had handed her minutes ago.
Four armed bodyguards instantly drew their weapons, the laser sights painting angry red dots across Claire’s white chef’s coat.
Marcus, the towering head of security who had been by Adrian’s side for fourteen years, stepped forward. “Are you out of your mind, Claire? Get on the floor!”
Adrian didn’t move. He didn’t drop the fork.
His dark, piercing eyes locked onto Claire’s terrified face. For three weeks, she had been the only person allowed to prepare his food. She had brought life back into a man who had forgotten how to live.
“Why?” Adrian asked. His voice was a deadly, quiet whisper.
“The truffle oil,” Claire gasped, ignoring the guns pointed at her chest. She pointed a shaking finger at his plate. “Julian gave it to me downstairs. He said it was a special reserve. But it smells like bitter almonds hiding under the earthiness. I tasted a drop on my finger, and my tongue went completely numb.”
Marcus sneered, his hand gripping his holster. “Julian has worked here for five years. He’s thoroughly vetted. You’re just a paranoid waitress who got promoted too fast.”
“I’m not lying!” Claire yelled.
Adrian looked at the fork in his hand. Then, he looked at Marcus.
“Bring me the cat,” Adrian ordered softly.
Marcus hesitated. “Boss, this is ridiculous—”
“I said, bring me the stray.”
A minute later, a guard carried in the feral orange cat that lived near the kitchen loading dock. Adrian set the piece of scallop on a crystal saucer and placed it on the floor.
The cat sniffed it eagerly.
It took one bite.
Less than ten seconds later, the animal convulsed, its eyes rolling back as it collapsed dead on the expensive rug.
The room erupted into chaos.
“Lock down the building!” Marcus roared into his radio. “Find Julian! Nobody leaves the property!”
Adrian slowly stood up. His face was entirely devoid of emotion, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He walked over to Claire, who was shaking uncontrollably, and gently pushed the laser sights of his guards' guns down.
“You saved my life,” Adrian said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
“He didn't just want to kill you,” Claire whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Before Julian ran, he asked me about Evelyn. My teacher. He wanted to know where she kept her old recipes.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “Why would an assassin care about an old woman’s cookbook?”
“I don't know,” Claire admitted. “But I have her notebook in my room.”
“Go get it,” Adrian commanded. “Now.”
Claire ran down the servant stairs to her small bedroom in the staff quarters. She dropped to her knees, pulling a battered wooden box from under her bed. Inside rested the cracked leather notebook Evelyn had given her the day before she passed away.
Keep this safe, Claire, the old woman had croaked from her hospital bed. It’s not just food. It’s the truth.
Claire opened the notebook. She flipped past the recipes for gumbo, jambalaya, and beignets.
Toward the back, the pages were glued together.
Using her paring knife, Claire carefully sliced the edges open.
Inside was a single, folded piece of thick stationary.
It was a death certificate.
Name: Isabella Cross.
Date of Death: October 14, 2010.
But it was the handwritten note scribbled in Evelyn’s shaky handwriting at the bottom that made the blood drain from Claire’s face.
She didn't die in the crossfire. I was hiding in the pantry. I saw who shot her. He wears her husband’s gold watch.
Claire’s breath hitched.
The door to her bedroom suddenly clicked shut and locked.
May you like
Standing in the shadows was Marcus, the head of security.
And on his left wrist, glowing in the dim light, was a massive, vintage gold watch.
