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)
He tugs at the ropes, chair scraping against the floor. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” I pace around his chair. “And I know your niece wouldn’t want to hear it.” I grip his shoulders from behind. “You like your cushy life? I’ll let you keep it. Not because you deserve it, but because I’m not in the mood to add another body to my conscience. Even yours.”
Something shifts in his face.
Guilt?
No.
It’s more like he’s calculating, trying to figure out what he can get away with.
“You want proof?” he says finally. “In my closet. Back wall. You’ll find a safe. In it is my diary. Every detail about what I’ve done with Jacinto Agudelo. And pictures.”
Diary?
Reyes sure doesn’t seem the journaling type.
Still, my gut goes cold.
“Pictures of what?”
“Taken while your girlfriend was entertaining me.”
My second punch knocks his head sideways. “You sick fuck.”
“I’m not proud of it.”
“Then why keep the pictures?” I step in. “Did you get off on those photos? Alone?”
He doesn’t answer. Which is an answer.
“Fine.” I step back. “If I find what you’re talking about and it’s damning enough, I’ll come back and let you go. On one condition.”
He swallows. “Name it.”
“You never go near Daniela again.”
His eyes flicker, like he’s about to push me, test how far I’ll go. I don’t give him the chance.
I move behind him, unbind his hands, and then rebind them in front of him and hand him a fork as I gesture to the tray. “You eat, you live longer,” I tell him. “Lie to me, and this will be your last decent meal.”
He doesn’t thank me. Just picks up the fork, eyes locked on mine as he chews.
His eating grates on me. He sounds like a pig who just got slopped.
When he’s done, I give him a minute of privacy to relieve himself in the corner of the barn, and then I bind and gag him again.
I leave him alone with the taste of food in his mouth.
“If you’re lying to me,” I say before shutting the door, “I’ll fucking end you.”
The barn door creaks shut. The lock slides home.
And for the first time all day, I feel the smallest bit in control.
38
DANIELA
I’m early the next morning. The kitchen lab is still dark. I walk in, the only sound the hum of the industrial refrigerators.
I walk past the room and toward the hallway that leads to the offices. I find Chef Charleston’s and knock.
“Yes? Come in.”
I open the door. His office is stark except for a desk, a computer, a small sink—weird—and a shelf full of cookbooks. It fits him.
“Good morning, Chef.”
“Daniela, good morning.” He smiles. “You said you wanted some help with an independent project?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah. Thanks for seeing me.”
He stands, washes his hands at the little sink. He yawns. “I’m sorry,” he says as he dries himself with a paper towel and throws it in a small wastebasket. “I’m exhausted. My daughter hosted a sleepover two nights ago and I’m still catching up.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Yes. Guinevere. She goes by Gwen. She’s eleven going on thirty.” He chuckles.
I blink. “Gwen?”
“Gwen C.,” he says, amused. “That’s what the homeschool group calls her because there’s another girl in the group, Gwendolyn, who also goes by Gwen.”
Heat pricks my neck. Gwen C. Belinda’s Gwen C. From class. From the slide. From the bowl of cheese balls.
I keep my face neutral. “Sounds fun.”
He huffs a laugh. “If you like glitter in your coffee. All right.” He gestures to the door. “Let’s go to the kitchen. We’ve got a little under a half hour or so before anyone else gets here.”
We step into the quiet kitchen. Everything gleams.
I set the zipper bag down. “Your lecture on chocolate was really interesting,” I say. “I’m wondering if you can tell me where these chocolates came from.”
“Of course.”
He doesn’t ask where I got them. He doesn’t ask why my mouth is tight. He just lays a clean board on the bench and lines up a paring knife and a tasting spoon.
“Ready?” he says.
“As I’ll ever be.”
He starts at one end. Smell. Snap. Taste. He presses the crumb to his palate with his tongue. Breathes through his nose.
“American.”
“American.”
“American.”
His voice is gentle but sure. “Milk weight. Vanilla. Too much sugar. That faint sour tang you don’t notice until you learn to hate it.”
Four. Five.
He breaks the fifth. “The snap on this one is different. Cleaner.” He examines it, turns it over in his palm. “The inside is a shade darker. The way it fractures is…softer.”
He tastes. Pauses. Tastes again. His eyes close.
“Not American.” He opens his eyes. Looks at me. “Colombian cacao.”
My fingers curl around the edge of the table. “You’re sure?”
“As sure as I get without notes.” He snaps his lips. “Fruit at the front. Floral mid. Earth, but not muddy. Tobacco whisper on the finish. Colombian. I’d bet Santander or Tumaco, depending on the maker.”