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The taxi driver spent the entire drive to Descartes trying to convince me to invest in crypto through a company he worked for. I didn’t think he realized he was a part of a pyramid scheme, and I wasn’t in a charitable enough mood to break the news to him.
A snowed-in Maine zipped by, with the car slowing down as we maneuvered the narrow streets of Staindrop. My knee bounced against the passenger seat the closer we got to the restaurant. Cal didn’t have a shift today. Two days ago, she’d spread her dad’s ashes. I’d prepared the meal for her in advance: homemade chocolate cake icing–flavored toaster pastries; triple-fried panko onion rings; jalapeno-honey corn dogs; and spicy apricot soy burgers. Basically, I’d made all of her favorite junk food but put my own twist on it. Strangely enough, it had felt good, depositing the three laden paper bags outside her door. I wasn’t used to making people happy, but with her, it seemed like an instinct.
“…all I’m saying is that diversification is key in this world. Just like you’d invest in gold, bonds, real estate…” The taxi driver droned on. He rounded the curb toward Main Street, where Descartes stood proudly. “You should give it a go. What’s the worst that could happen?”
He slowed down to a stop in front of my display windows, and that was when I noticed it.
Descartes was trashed.
About two dozen broken eggs were smeared across the windows and doors. A pile of garbage spilled at the door. TRAITOR was graffitied across the length of the restaurant in black. The double-glazed glass door had been smashed.
“The fuck?” I pushed the taxi door open, throwing a wad of cash in the driver’s general direction.
Taylor stood outside, a stunned look on his face. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a checked hoodie, and it occurred to me I couldn’t remember him wearing anything other than his chef clothes because he always clocked in hours before I did. I had never grabbed a drink with him and asked about his life.
Which was a weird thought to have right now, when my restaurant was demolished.
“What happened?” I stalked his way, dropping my duffel bag on the ground.
Taylor shook his head. “Just got here and saw this. I called Rhy. He’s on his way. We have surveillance cameras, right?”
We did. And I had an app on my phone with access to the footage. I shouldered past him, entering the restaurant. Broken glass crunched under my feet. The place looked unspoiled inside, but the outside had at least twenty thousand dollars’ worth of damage, and shit knew how long we’d be closed. We were already overbooked. We’d have to cancel every single reservation for the next three days, minimum.
“Who could it be?” Taylor’s voice followed me from behind.
“Randy,” I said, even though I didn’t know if I believed it myself. “Melinda and Pete. Allison. Lyle.”
At this point, it could have been anyone. Could have been Cal, for all I knew. This whole thing had started after she’d arrived.
Someone was sending me a message, and the more time passed, the bolder they got.
Curious onlookers began gathering outside the restaurant, peering inside, taking pictures on their phones. I ran a hand through my hair and slowly felt my patience evaporating through my pores. I fucking hated this place. Always had. Staindrop’s only redeeming quality was Cal, and she was about to leave in a few weeks.
Should’ve signed Tate’s contract a few hours ago and gotten it over with.
“Called the police.” Rhyland’s voice made both me and Taylor whip our heads toward the door. He elbowed a dangling piece of glass to clear his path into the restaurant, his phone pressed to his ear. “Shit. That’s gonna be a lot of cancellation calls.”
He said it with such indifference, I began wondering if he was the one who had done this. Fuck, I was becoming paranoid. Tate was right. This town would make my death day a national holiday. I shouldn’t give a crap about handing it over to him.
Pulling my phone out, I checked the surveillance camera app. Coast looked clear until about five thirty in the morning, when I spotted car headlights entering the frame, then quickly turning off. I couldn’t tell the car’s model or make, since it was just the edge of the headlights. A black-swathed figure in a balaclava got out of the car and sauntered to the surveillance camera with confidence, knowing exactly where it was. He had a stool in his hand, which he used to step on to reach the camera, and then smashed it with a hammer.
“Whoever did this broke the camera.” My teeth ground together so hard I could feel them crumbling into dust.
Taylor frowned. “Can you see who it was? Anyone we know?”
“Yeah.” I shot him an annoyed look. “Just keepin’ you assholes guessing for the suspense of it.”
Rhy clapped Taylor’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, buddy, you get used to the verbal abuse.”
“They broke it for funsies,” I said, mostly to myself, replaying the video. “The guy was wearing a balaclava and parked way out of the frame. Knew he wouldn’t get caught.”
“Well, whaddawe have here?” Sheriff Menchin strode into Descartes, tipping his hat down in my direction. Theo Menchin was a thirtysomething, young Brad Pitt clone with a no-bullshit attitude I’d have admired if it hadn’t been directed at me. He slung a thumb into his belt and peered around. “Looks like some rich folks are gonna go hungry tonight.”
Behind him, a young, meaty officer snickered at his joke.
“Got a call in saying someone at this address wants to file a report.” Menchin popped one blond eyebrow. “What for?”
