Page 6
"Bye, Sabina. See you in four days!" With that, Corey rushes out of the restaurant, leaving me alone with the last table, an elderly couple halfway through sharing a slice of cake.
Great.
It's not Corey's fault he's sick, and he's right, I implemented the rule to catch any unwell staff before they risked infecting the food or turning customers away with their sickly appearance, but that makes four waitstaff sick and only two left.
Tomorrow's shift is going to be hell.
Groaning, I pick up the thermometer and turn, but the sudden heat against my palm makes me hesitate. The entire thermometer is hot. And damp. I lift it, and the faint scent of coffee drifts from the end, igniting tired frustration in my chest.
That lying dick.
The next time I see him, there'll be hell to pay.
I spend the next ten minutes tending the last table, and by the time they've finished their cake and left, the delivery's turned up at the back door and I have to sprint through the kitchen to reach them.
"Sorry!" I gasp, wrenching the door open as the buzzer blares continuously through the air. "Busy night." I grip the door handle and frown when an unfamiliar face turns to greet me. "Uh… where's Roman?"
"Sick," replies the delivery man with a bored sigh. "Where do you want the stuff?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. There's a lot of that going around." I peer past him and his elbow resting on top of the pallet to where another equally bored, unfamiliar face gazes back at me.
"Where do you want it?" the man grunts. "Come on, lady, we're on a tight schedule."
"I'm sorry. Please, if you could bring them in and just wheel them over there to the left, that would be great, thanks."
The men start hauling the pallet of stock in before I'm even out of the way, so I have to dart back into the kitchen to stop my toes from getting run over. The two men wheel the first pallet into the kitchen and then they both sigh deeply.
"We gotta load the second," grunts the first man. "Be a sec."
"No worries." I flash him a smile he doesn't return, then he and his younger friend head back outside to the van.
Part of me wants to leave this until tomorrow, but with four staff out sick, I won't have time. I'll need to call the owner and let her know, then see if I can find a temp agency that can send me some wait staff to tide us over until this flu thing has passed. On top of that, unpacking all these pallets by myself will keep me here so late, I might as well sleep in one of the booths.
"Great," I murmur to myself. "Fucking great."
Fighting a yawn, I unload the first box from the pallet and store the bags of pasta in the pantry. Crates of fruit and veg are next. I stack them in the pantry, then grab the next box and drop it onto the counter. My shoulders are already beginning to complain and despite the cushiony softness of my shoes, my feet are screaming.
The cardboard flaps fall open under my hands, and I grab the top bag of flour, but as I clutch it to my chest and reach for another one, something unexpectedly hard prods me in the ribs, and I wince.
"Ouch. What the…?" Holding the flour bag aloft, my eyes widen. Something odd and angular protrudes from the side of the bag, creating a slight shadow beneath the material.
"You've got to be kidding me." Rotten flour is the last thing I need after this hellish day. Turning away from the pallet, I grab a knife from the rack and stab it into the flour with one smooth stroke. The sack parts like water against the blade and piles of flour immediately pour out onto the counter.
As well as something solid and black.
"Uh…" I puff my cheek and nudge at the small black item, fearing it's some kind of weird, exotic mold that will kill me the moment I touch it.
Tap.
The knife clinks against the item once, then twice when I nudge it again.
Not mold. It looks like… metal? Picking up the item, I puff my cheeks and blow some of the flour off. As I'm examining, the shifting flour pouring from the sack delivers another clunk and I look down. Another strange metal shape sits covered in flour. It's a different shape from the one in my hand.
My heart begins to race and I drop the knife, instead using my hands to tear the sack open wider. Flour clings to my hands and wrists. It clouds the air and stains my black shirt as I dig through it, finding not one but five different metal pieces. While four of them are unfamiliar by themselves, the fifth piece buried at the bottom of the sack brings it all together.
It's a magazine.
From a Glock, given how all the pieces look like they slot together when I lay them out on the counter. I've not been around guns since my father, but I know a handgun when I see one.
