I don’t miss the flash of distress on Flavio’s face. “Are you serious right now? You’re actually considering shuttering your best shop?”
“Well, yeah. Because sorry, man, but do the math. If we’re lucky, insurance will pay enough for a kitchen reno, to fix up the ceiling and install fire-retardant noise absorption panels like I should have done the first time, to slap on some paint and buy some new tables and chairs. It’ll be months before you and I are drawing a salary again.”
Flavio’s expression is an elbow to the gut, and it floods me with guilt. He and his wife have one kid in college and another starting next year. He needs the income this place generates as much as I do. I’m an asshole for ever hiring him.
A muffled ring sounds from deep in his pocket. He digs his cell out and waves the screen my way—the insurance company—and I gesture for him to answer.
He wanders off to the front of the shop, phone pressed to his ear, and I turn back to the burn pattern on the wall. I stare at the markings, sooty footprints from the flames that curled up and over the edge into the dining room.
Footsteps crunch on the glass behind me. “He says he’s on his way, here in about an hour. He also said if somebody wanted Bolling Way to go up in flames, then shorting out an outlet next to a vat of flammable cooking grease would be the way to do it, which really made me wonder…” Flavio pauses, an empty silence that roars in my ears. “When’s the last time you talked to George?”
I whirl around, frowning. George, the sous-chef Flavio fired back in the spring. The one who lost his shit on Flavio in front of a kitchen full of staff. “Not since that night. When was that, late March?”
The night George trashed the place and stormed out, but not before threatening to burn it to the ground.
Flavio slips his phone back in his pocket. “I asked Abernathy to change the locks, but they never did. Which means George still has a working key.”
I can’t believe I didn’t think of him earlier.
My limbs prickle with nervous energy, and I check the time on my cell, already plotting out the route to George’s town house in my head. If traffic isn’t awful, a twenty-minute drive. There and back in time to meet with the insurance inspector, but only if I haul ass.
“Hold down the fort,” I say, jogging across the toasted floor. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
T H E I N T E R V I E W
Juanita: Why don’t you start by walking us through your version of August 6.
Cam: ‘My’ version?
Juanita: I just mean walk us through your day. What you did that morning, where you were when you got the call from Jade. That kind of stuff.
Cam: Okay. Well, I didn’t roll out of bed until the early
afternoon—fairly typical since I worked nights. I usually started my days by making lunch for Jade and me, but not that day. She had swapped schedules with somebody at Baxter’s day camp, took over their shift for craft time. Anyway, I didn’t see her at all that morning, or that afternoon. I didn’t even hear her and the kids leave. I was completely zonked.
Juanita: What time did you leave the house?
Cam: Two or so.
Juanita: And your truck, I’m assuming it was parked in the detached garage?
Cam: Yes, in the space next to Jade’s.
Juanita: And you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.
Cam: No. But this was a good hour, maybe more, before he got there.
Juanita: How did he get into the garage?
Cam: Through the door by the breezeway, I’m assuming. There’s a lock on that door but we never use it.
Juanita: Or maybe you left it open so he could get in the garage.
Cam: I already told you, we never used that lock. And why would you accuse me of such a thing? Are you insinuating I had something to do with the kidnapping of my own family?
Juanita: I wouldn’t be the first to suggest it. In the months since the home invasion, there’s been a great deal of misinformation floating around about you, both online and in print. Most of the stories accuse you of some kind of wrongdoing.
Cam: Oh, is that what we’re calling it now—misinformation?
Juanita: Rumors of hidden money in offshore accounts, accusations of tax evasion and conspiracy, a former pastry chef who claimed you had an affair with her roommate.
Cam: Fake news, all of it. Especially that last one, though she sure tried hard enough. Whenever she’d show up at one of the shops, the bartenders would text me a warning so I could sneak out through the kitchen. Ask any of them, they’ll tell you she was a pit bull.