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More importantly, half of this stuff isn’t fit to serve anymore unless they want to risk a write-up from the health inspector.
As I approach, I see the branded stickers holding the boxes shut look torn, the frayed edges smoothed back down with a dirty thumb. Unhygienic as hell.
There’s a noise behind me.
I barely have time to duck into a corner when someone enters the room.
A dishwasher or kitchen boy, judging by the pimples on his chin. He grabs a box of sauces—ketchup and mayonnaise—and runs back to the kitchen.
I shouldn’t be here.
I’m risking the fucking farm.
If anyone catches me, the best-case scenario is Haute knows I’m up his ass snooping around. Either he pulls the plug on whatever he’s doing with Junie, or I get her into trouble. No matter what, the contract with Higher Ends will be toast.
Worst-case scenario, I wind up with trespassing charges on top of it.
This better pay off.I grit my teeth.
With one more glance at the door leading into the kitchen, I swipe the top box from the pile and run. It feels like cupcakes or muffins bouncing around inside.
I fly through the kitchen and stagger back outside, bolting to my car.
The weather’s turned windy and fresh rain blows in my face.
I tuck the box awkwardly under my jacket, trying to look normal in case there are cameras.
I keep my head down, facing the ground as I walk to my car.
Walk, not run.
Confidence.
That’s one of the first lessons my dad taught me. Look like you know what you’re doing, and people will believe it.
As soon as I’m in the car, I open the box.
Sure enough, a few disorderly cupcakes stare up at me, perfectly normal aside from some damaged frosting. There’s a fingerprint gouging the icing, but otherwise, there’s nothing to suggest they’ve been seriously tampered with.
What else? What am I missing?
I feel ridiculous as I grab the cupcake and squeeze it in my fingers. The moist cake crumbles in my palm, raining crumbs all over my suit.
Goddammit.
I’m chasing my own tail and nothing makes sense anymore.
Then something sharp stabs my palm.
I stop and look at what I’m doing.
There’s some kind of small metallic disk at the base of the cupcake. A metal plate stamped with a number.
Bingo.
I rip open the rest of the cupcakes and find more, all stuffed into the bases. Sweat beads on my brow.
I don’t know what I’m looking at, not yet.
