I drop my bag onto the built-in seat above the shoe cubbies, wiping one eye and then the other, buying myself some time, trying to remember if Cam and I ever got around to changing the duress code. I know we talked about it. I know I asked him to. He said he needed a manual, and I asked him if I looked like Google. He laughed and said I was the sexiest Google he ever did see, but did he ever do it? Did he change the damn duress code?
I don’t fucking know.
“I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” the man says, reading my mind. His gaze flicks between me and the pad. “Same as you did just now, 2-9-2-1. If the cops show up in the next five to seven minutes, the kids are first, then you.”
I swallow down a sob and tick in the code with quaking fingers, then tap 3 to arm the system to Stay. The tiny light flips back to red, and a cold numbness blooms in my chest and spreads across my skin.
We are locked in the house with a gunman.
C A M
3:21 p.m.
“Everything okay?” I look at Flavio, the best general manager I’ve got and GM of the charred remains of the steak shop we’re currently standing in. He’s asked a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one.
I take in the ruins of my flagship restaurant and remind myself to breathe. Faulty wiring, according to the lead firefighter, and in the worst possible spot, next to a giant tub of cooking oil. One tiny spark in a corner of the kitchen that quickly grew into a fireball, licking up the walls and into the empty space above. The flames crawled across the ceiling into the dining room, where noise absorption panels were spread like a nighttime constellation, custom-made sheets of foam and fabric that rained down sparks and fire. By the time the fire trucks got here, the place was completely engulfed.
“No, I’m not okay. It’s like a bomb went off in here. I’m about as far from okay as you can get.”
The tables, the chairs, the custom booths and polished cherry bar, the cut crystal glasses, the trio of art deco chandeliers by the entrance that cost $17,500 a pop. Whatever didn’t go up in flames was hosed with what must have been fifteen hundred gallons of water. It’s like standing in a flooded ashtray.
“I meant with Jade,” Flavio says, swiping a hand down his dark beard. Like most men in the restaurant business, he gives his facial hair free rein—the bushier, the better. I used to complain, but these days hell if I care. “That’s who you were talking to earlier, right?”
“Oh. Yeah, some creep’s been following her around town, but let’s tackle one disaster at a time. What the hell happened here? How did it get this bad?”
“Apparently, the noise panels were highly flammable.” He points to a spot high on the wall to the kitchen, where the first in a web of panels is now a black, smoky blur. “The flames hit that one and poof. The whole ceiling was gone in a matter of minutes.”
I stare at the maze of tangled wires and smoke-blackened insulation that runs along the spine of the building, most of it burned away. The stench, a combination of charred wood and melted plastic, sears like acid in the back of my throat, the inside of my nose, my lungs.
My best moneymaker gone. One hundred and thirteen employees out of a job. Millions of dollars turned to ash.
Flavio kicks a chunk of something aside, burnt wood scraping over glass and stone, a sound I feel in my bones. This place was his main source of income, too.
My chest tightens with a familiar weight. What kind of cocky idiot opens a fifth restaurant when the other four aren’t paid off? What was I thinking, taking on responsibility for all those people? Flavio watches me, waiting for a response, and I have no clue what to say. That I never should have given him a job? That only a fool would trust me with their livelihood? I swallow and turn away.
At the front of the shop, two women with blowouts and shocked expressions peer through what’s left of the plate-glass window. Thanks to the location in the middle of Buckhead’s swankiest shopping district, these ladies are our typical daytime diners. They order hundred-dollar bottles of wine and steak salads they barely touch, and they come in such droves there’s a two-week wait for a 12:30 table.
Scratch that—was a two-week wait.
I yank my eyes away from their disappointed faces, focusing instead on the markings on a far wall. Two giant sooty wings that swoop up and into the blackened ceiling. The pastry prep station. The stainless steel worktops that once stood there have been shoved to the side, a heap of metal and ash. I flip on the flashlight on my phone and move deeper into the darkness. My footsteps are loud in the hushed space, the broken glass and debris crunching under my shoes.
Flavio doesn’t ask what I’m looking at, because he sees it, too.
Ground zero. The source of the blaze.
I take in the ruined chunk of wall, the melted remains of what was once an outlet. Whatever was plugged in there has been burned and melted away. An electrical fire, and in the worst possible place.
“What happened to the alarm?” I say, and I can hear the break in my voice, feel the slow swirl of dread prickling my neck.
The system I paid an obscene amount for, one the salesman guaranteed would protect this place from not just theft but also sudden temperature spikes. And a multiple-alarm fire like this one—the kind that blows out the glass partition between the kitchen and the dining area and pumps a column of black smoke high enough into the early morning sky that some lady walking her dog five blocks away was alarmed enough to call 9-1-1—would come with one hell of a temperature spike.
“How come it didn’t go off?”
Flavio steps up next to me, sniffing. “I asked the alarm company the same question. They said they’re looking into things and will call me back as soon as they know more. Between you and me, it sounded like they were scrambling.”
“Well, keep on them. Get in your car and drive up there for answers if you have to. Threaten to sue their pants off if they don’t hurry the hell up. We don’t need anything holding up that insurance money.”
Flavio shoves his hands in the pockets of his tan fleece, watching me in that quiet way of his. The best thing about Flavio is that he never loses his cool. The worst thing about Flavio is that he never loses his cool.
“Okay, so worst-case scenario,” I say. “How long to get this place back up and running—four months? Five?”
“Probably more like seven or eight.”
I do the math in my head. The average weekly revenue times thirty-two weeks, and—
“That’s more than four million dollars!”
“Four point three, but yeah. I get it. It’s a lot.”
Flavio doesn’t get it. He has no idea how, without the income this place generates, I will have to do triage the next time payroll comes around. How thinking about the invoices in my inbox makes my lungs lock up and my heart pound and my vision go dark around the edges. He doesn’t know about last week’s trip to the emergency room because I thought I was having a heart attack. I haven’t told anyone about that, not even Jade. Especially not her.
At the thought of Jade, my heart double taps, and I suddenly can’t catch a breath. “What time is the insurance guy coming?”
“I’m waiting on him to provide an ETA. When I talked to him earlier, he was more concerned about the short in the wiring. He called it peculiar for a building this new. That’s the word he used, peculiar.”
I stand perfectly still despite the emotion cramping my gut. Peculiar means the inspector suspects foul play. Peculiar means attorneys and legal battles and months-long delays before I get my hands on that money.
I think about the second mortgage I just took out on the house, the price tag for Mom’s condo fees, Westmore Music Academy and the kids’ private school that costs as much as tuition for an out-of-state college, the new SUV we’ve spent the past two weekends shopping for because Jade’s out-of-warranty BMW is too expensive to keep. With my best revenue source going up in literal smoke,
I am going to need the insurance money fast, or the next few months are going to be a master class in money juggling.
“Kitchen and waitstaff are going to jump ship, you know,” Flavio says. “Hostesses, too. There are a couple of folks we may want to move over to another shop so as not to lose them, but we’re going to have to replace most of the staff.”
Anybody who’s paid by the hour, which is 98 percent of my employees. They’ll leave, and hell, who can blame them? They’ve got bills to pay, too, and Lasky employees are the best trained in town. Another area restaurant will snap them up before the end of the week.
“Let ’em go. It’s probably a win-win anyway.”
Flavio frowns. “How so?”
“Come on, Flavio. This place is a disaster, and you said it yourself. We won’t be filling tables anytime soon. Better to tell the staff to find another job. And as much as I hate to say it, you might want to make a few calls yourself.”
“That seems awfully extreme. I can hang on a week or two until the insurance money bridges the gap. And Abernathy’s already called. They said they’ll work with us on the lease.”
Abernathy is the landlord, the owner of the sixty-five shops spread across the six Buckhead blocks that fan out in all directions around us. A few years ago, in an effort to boost their business, Abernathy made us an offer we couldn’t refuse: free rein on a building in the center of the development and the first thirty-six months rent-free. Three years in one of the city’s most desirable locations where we haven’t paid a cent, not one single penny, of rent. It’s the only reason I’m still standing, because this place makes a killing.
Shit—made a killing.
“They’re going to have to work with us. No way I’m paying rent on this dump, and honestly, I have real doubts about reinvesting in a shop where I don’t own the building.”
Flavio frowns. “What are you saying exactly?”
“I’m saying maybe I should just take the insurance money and run.”
It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud, and releasing them loosens the noose around my neck. I inhale and think them again. Close up shop. Wave the white flag. The air is fresh and cool and it tingles the bottom of my lungs. What if this fire is the universe telling me it’s time? Walking away from this place, from Lasky Steak, it feels like the opposite of defeat.
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.
Juanita: I did ask them.
Cam: And?
Juanita: They said you loved Jade. That you would never cheat on her.
Cam: [spreads hands]
Juanita: But the point I’m trying to make is all the information, much of it false, that is circulating about your part in what happened to your family. Many say you’re to blame, that your silence created a space for rumors and conspiracy theories.
Cam: That may be true, but this is my life we’re talking about. I mean, I know the restaurants put me in the spotlight before the home invasion, but that was nothing compared to you people camped out in front of the house day and night, ambushing me in the gym and the grocery store. Nobody wants that kind of attention. I certainly don’t.
Juanita: Because the public is fascinated by what happened. For most of us, a home invasion is just about the most terrifying thing we can imagine. The thought of a stranger ambushing you as you’
re coming in the door and forcing their way into your house, threatening you and your children. It’s everyone’s worst nightmare.
Cam: Then just imagine it happening to the people you love most in this world. That’s so much worse than experiencing it yourself.
Juanita: Except this wasn’t just any old home invasion, was it? The masked man wasn’t a stranger. None of this was random.
Cam: [sighs] Not even a little bit.
J A D E
3:27 p.m.
“Not bad.”
The man pokes his head around the corner, checking out the space where the mudroom spills into the house. He takes in the sleek chef’s kitchen that was featured in Bon Appétit, the keeping room with a giant sectional facing a fireplace topped with a flat screen, the more formal living room that made the cover of Atlanta Homes & Lifestyles, every piece lovingly designed and selected by me. Hours and hours of my very best work.
“Nice place you got here.” He turns back with an appreciative nod, and I swallow down a sour tremor.
His words are pleasant enough but not his tone, so hostile that my nerves stir with fright. I can hear the thoughts tripping through his brain. That we have too much. That he has too little. It’s such an about-face from his demeanor in the garage, calm and matter-of-fact even when waving around his gun, it makes my legs go mushy.
I push my words through clenched teeth: “What now?”
If the man hears me, he doesn’t respond. He’s too busy exploring, moving through the back part of the house, taking in the furnishings. The custom rug in the keeping room, the portrait of the kids that covers a whole wall, the Marcel Wanders chandelier with more than three hundred twinkling lights. He takes it all in with greedy, observant eyes.
The room is spinning, and I need to sit down, but I’m too afraid to move. I stand in the doorway of the mudroom, Baxter clinging to me. Beatrix stands on my other side, her back ramrod straight, her feet shoulder-width apart like Miss Juliet is always coaching. I wrap a hand around each of my children, pressing them close until there’s no air between us.
My Darling Husband Page 3