Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
When it’s done, I wipe my hands on the towel hanging by the door, and he’s already at the counter, cracking eggs.
“You start with the whites,” he says. His tone changes when he talks about cooking. “You have to beat them just right. Too soft, and it collapses. Too stiff, and it breaks.”
I watch as he whisks in a perfect rhythm, the egg whites turning glossy, peaks like snow-capped mountains.
“Do you watch those cooking competitions?” he asks, a little grin on his face. “On the Food Network. It’s my guilty pleasure. Hell’s Kitchen, Cutthroat Kitchen. Half those guys couldn’t make a decent soufflé if their lives depended on it.”
My father doesn’t let me watch much television anymore, but I watch cooking whenever I can. “You’d win,” I say, massaging his pride a little. I’ve learned what to say and how to say it to bend men to my will. It helps sometimes. They’re a little less cruel.
He laughs and folds the chocolate mixture into the egg whites with deliberate motions. “Here,” he says, handing me the spatula. “Gentle. Don’t deflate it.”
I copy his movements, careful not to rush. For a moment, I forget where I am, who I am, and why I’m here. Instead, I’m preparing soufflés for my own restaurant. In Paris, maybe. Or Spain. Or the US.
The soufflés bake, filling the kitchen with a smell so rich it almost makes me dizzy. I help Chef clean up the kitchen.
When the soufflés are done, Chef pulls them from the oven.
“I made an extra.” He slides one toward me, powdered sugar falling in a soft drift across the top. “Taste.”
I break the delicate surface with a spoon. Steam rises as I lift the bite to my mouth and blow on it to cool it. Then I taste. The texture is light but decadent, the chocolate melting against my tongue. “It’s perfect.”
“Take something,” he says. “From the kitchen. A gift. For my best student.”
“What?” I ask.
“You heard me. I’m feeling generous today.” He looks at me, licking his lips. “And well-satisfied.”
Disgust boils in my stomach, but I tamp it down.
He’s offering me something from his kitchen, and I’m not going to give up this chance.
I scan the counters, the shelves, the gleaming row of knives on the magnetic strip above the counter. One catches my eye—a Japanese chef’s knife with a carved wood handle, a sapphire set into its base. It’s beautiful, perfectly balanced. He only allowed me to use it once. It felt perfect in my grip, like it was made for me.
“That knife,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “Anything but that one.”
“But you said anything.”
He sighs. “I did. Take it, then. I won’t be quite so generous the next time.”
I don’t doubt his words. Next time I’ll probably have to fake gag.
I wrap my hand around the handle and let the weight of it settle into my palm.
And I can’t help myself. I actually say, “Thank you.”
Present Day…
I walk into my bedroom to my nightstand. The knife is wrapped in linen, tucked in the back of the bottom drawer. I pull it out.
It’s one of the few things I had time to grab before I fled Colombia with Vinnie and Serena. I’ve cooked plenty since I came to the States, but I’ve never used it.
Not because it’s too fine.
Because it belongs here, in my bedroom, where I can reach it in the dark.
If he comes for me here, in my home—the man behind the poisoned chocolates, the roses, the notes, the grenade—this knife sinking into his flesh will be the last thing he feels.
29
HAWK
The night air is heavy and warm the way it only is on a Texas night. My shirt clings between my shoulder blades, but I don’t break stride. I keep to the shadows along the edge of the street.
Reyes’s house stands at the end of the block.
The gated community was easy enough to get back into. Same trick as before—follow a resident in, look like I belong. I parked two streets over, tucked under a tree where the streetlight’s dead.
From here, it’s all muscle memory.
I skirt the back fence, sticking to the narrow strip where the neighbor’s hedges run high enough to hide me. The pool’s edge gleams faintly. I hear the faint hum of the filter, smell the chlorine.
The stairwell is exactly where Zillow said it would be—set into the concrete deck, the kind of thing a homeowner thinks is hidden because they never look at their own house from a predator’s point of view.
The camera above it is a fake. I knew it before, but I check again anyway—plastic housing, no wiring visible, lens too small to actually do the job.
One deep breath, and then I slip down the steps.
No alarm system other than the cameras and dummies. What a fool Reyes is, though this isn’t his main residence. He just happens to be in town. Lucky for me.