“He insisted on what?” I stepped closer to the cops, not hiding my intense interest in their reply.
Bourne pierced me with his gaze. “You really don’t know?”
Which was crap as far as explanations went. I told him so with my confused glower. “Know . . . what?”
“Mr. Shark spent several hours in the West Hills Hospital Emergency Room last night.” He narrowed his gaze even tighter in response to my stark gasp. “This is the first you’re hearing this?”
I gulped hard. “Is— Is he all right?” I stammered. “Wait. Is he hurt? What happened?”
“Did he trip over his own ego?”
“Rio.” I shot her a warning glare.
“What?” She gave innocence a solid attempt before Sean squeezed her hand.
Sebastian Shark consumed every inch of my imagination, but picturing him lying on a hospital gurney . . .
Impossible.
And unbearable.
“He was admitted for symptoms concurrent with food poisoning,” Bourne said. “Likely because of something he ingested yesterday.”
“Food poi—” I cut myself off with a shocked cough. I couldn’t even finish the phrase. It was every caterer’s worst nightmare—and now I was living it.
Symptoms. Illness. Yesterday.
“What are you saying?” Sean asked, face twisted in bewilderment. “He got sick from something he ate?”
“That’s exactly what he’s saying,” Rio said. “And judging from all this”—she waved a frustrated hand toward the officers—“he’s also saying our food was the culprit.”
“Only alleging.” Silva actually spoke up then, though his mellow mediator smile had vanished. “Nobody’s being accused of anything.”
“Not yet,” Rio mumbled.
“Babe.” Another mental thank-you to Sean as he cinched his wife to his side, speaking directly into her ear. “Dial it down, beautiful. You’re making things harder for Abbi right now.”
But while I was grateful for my brother’s intervention, his action didn’t deter Bourne from funneling an intense stare at Rio. “You said our food? What’s that all about?”
“It’s about nothing. This is my sister-in-law, Rio Gibson, and she’s an employee of Abstract Catering.”
Bourne pulled out a small pad and started jotting everything I relayed. In terse clips, he added, “An employee with clear-cut views regarding Mr. Shark.”
“An employee,” I said, “who performs her job according to my strict standards of hygiene and food preparation.”
Rio squirmed again, clearly wanting to add to that, but Sean checked her. I shot him a new look of gratitude.
“Mr. Shark states that his schedule was so packed yesterday, he only had time to eat lunch,” Bourne went on. “And that the meal was hand-delivered to his office from Abstract Catering.”
I swallowed hard again, despite how it felt like every river stone in their garden was in my throat. “I was the one who delivered Mr. Shark’s sandwich,” I said. “It was in a sealed container before I brought it into his office, but he enjoys his meals on actual china, so I set it up for him. He watched me the entire time.”
“Fair enough,” Silva said. “And where was the container before you delivered it into his office?”
“On my cart, where I keep all the preordered meals for each building.”
“And you’re with that cart at all times?” Bourne pressed. “It stays at your side?”
I tottered my head back and forth. “Yes and no. I mean, I don’t abandon it or anything.”
“Not even to use the ladies’ room?”
“If that’s necessary, I do it in the building lobby before loading the cart. Once I’m up on delivery floors, I only leave the cart for snips at a time.” Which was technically already a lie—since my snip behind Shark’s closed doors was more than that. Holy crap, so much more. Snips were what someone did to stray threads. Being with him had been like tangling in a whole bolt of fabric. Probably velvet. Soft on one side, rough and ruthless on the other.
I ordered myself to remember that—ruthless. Because it had led to this. Being scrutinized under the late-morning sun, which felt more and more like the heat lamp in an interrogation room. Making me wonder if this weekend was going to end with my ass behind bars, awaiting arraignment for poisoning LA’s most prominent businessman.
“Snips.” I wasn’t sure if the quirk of Bourne’s lips should make me hopeful or more nervous. “Since you set up Mr. Shark’s meal for him, did that qualify as a snip too?”
“No.” I shored up my posture. “It was longer than a snip. But I already had his lunch with me when I entered his office. Additionally, Mr. Shark’s floor is always my first delivery for that building.”
This time, Silva was the one to tilt his head in curiosity. “Isn’t he in the penthouse?”
“From the top down,” Rio cut in. “That’s how we usually work it. Start at the top floor and work our way back down and then right out to the van.”
Silva nodded. “Yeah, that makes perfect sense. The VIPs first.” His shrug gave away how thoroughly he disagreed with such policies, but he wasn’t the alpha dog on this interrogation—or whatever the hell it was.
Bourne was still clearly zeroed in on one prerogative. “Ms. Gibson, from the time you loaded your cart to the time you took Mr. Shark’s lunch off of it, that conveyance wasn’t out of your sight for even—what? How long would you say? Five minutes?”
I looked away, focusing my study on the modern statue occupying the yard across the street. I’d never been able to tell if it was an elegant pelican or a bizarre mermaid. Par for the course today, since the entire world seemed to be based solely on perception.
“Not even that,” I replied. “Before I arrived at Mr. Shark’s office, there were only a handful of other orders for the floor, and all of them approached me for their food.”
Silva frowned. “Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”
“Have you ever tasted Abstract’s sandwiches and salads?” Sean’s comment, while dunked in pride, was the best and worst line right now.
The next question was once again Bourne’s. “So there was no time for anyone else to have tampered with the boxes on the cart?” he pressed.
“No. Those containers are noisy. Even if I’d turned to talk to someone, I would’ve heard the plastic crackles.” I shook my head, more defined about it this time. “I don’t understand any of this. Seriously, who would want to do this to Sebastian?”
A choke tumbled from Rio. “Sebastian?”
“Leave it,” Sean said, but I couldn’t thank him this time. All my energy was fixed on Bourne and Silva, resulting in my racing heart and clammy palms.
“Unless . . . Mr. Shark wasn’t the only one in that building who reported something?”
My question was awful but necessary. I’d delivered hundreds of lunches yesterday. Even if half of them had somehow gotten tainted and neither Rio nor I caught it, my business insurance company would never underwrite me again. I’d be finished before I ever started.
“He’s the only one who came forward.”
My shoulders sagged beneath my rush of relief. On the other hand, it was Sebastian Shark who’d come forward and told these guys to go specifically for me. But now that I was reasonably sure I wouldn’t lose my business, a new sensation took the place of my dread. A full fire bursting to life inside me.
Fury.
Imagine that. I longed so badly to borrow from Bourne’s stoicism, but that was not the natural inclination of my personality. I had the hot Irish temper bred into me from generation upon generation, and I felt insulted and infuriated. And, as everyone close to me knew, that meant tears.
Perfect. Goddamn tears pricked and burned, unwelcomed guests to this little patio party we were having, and I sucked in air through my nose, trying to get a hold of my emotions.
“Abs, it’s okay. We’ll get to the bottom of it. I’m sure there’s an explanation.” My brother stepped aw
ay from his wife to comfort me instead, and I couldn’t be strong enough to turn him away. His arms felt so good wrapped around my shoulders, his chest a comfort I needed.
Rio stepped in behind me and rubbed circles on my back while the deputies stood awkwardly by and said nothing. No one needed to know the tears weren’t just from the stress of this debacle. No one needed to know the tears weren’t just from the fear of my hard work being flushed down the john with a client’s food poisoning remains.
No. These tears were the culmination of a week of frustration and confusion and mixed-up feelings and emotions that I was so unfamiliar with having. I missed my mom and my other brothers, and I missed having someone to confide in when I had questions that only a girl’s mother could answer with complete honesty and without judgment.
I pulled back from Sean’s embrace after only a minute.
“Okay?” he asked, ducking down to be level with my eyes.
“Yes.” I nodded, swiping at my cheeks. “I’m fine now. Sorry about that.” I brushed hastily at his T-shirt where there were creases and light swipes of makeup.
He grasped both of my wrists to halt my fussing. “It’s fine, Abs. It’s fine. You needed that. I wish you’d lean on us more, actually.” His voice was tender and protective, and his big brotherliness swaddled me in a cocoon of love and compassion. It was the exact balm I needed.
“Outstanding, then,” Silva announced awkwardly, snapping my family out of the tender moment we were sharing. “I think we have all we need for now. I’d like to leave our information with you, Ms. Gibson. If you think of anything or have any questions—”
“That reminds me!” I interrupted excitedly as a memory flipped to the forefront of my mind.
“When you said ‘outstanding,’ it reminded me that I have this on my phone.” I dug in the pocket of the hoodie hanging on the back of the chair to get my cell phone. “A text message I received from Mr. Shark yesterday afternoon after he enjoyed the lunch I made for him. And no, it’s not something I casually interpreted.” I pointed to my phone. “The evidence is right there. I’ll be saving his words for posterity. Or a court of law. Whichever comes first.”
I had to admit, Silva’s answering grin was a blast to enjoy.
Bourne’s was even better.
I gave in to an easy smile. “If you don’t mind, gentlemen, I have to get back to what I was doing here.” I waved at the goodie bags still strewn about the patio. “I will definitely give you a call if I have any questions.”
We said goodbye to the officers, and Rio went inside to mix up a big batch of margaritas. It was definitely five o’clock somewhere.
Chapter Six
Sebastian
“Bas, really, you could’ve stayed home. She would’ve understood.” Pia eyed me from behind her giant Jackie-O sunglasses, patting my hand like she was excusing me from a root canal.
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away from one of Vela’s games. You know that. Besides, I feel fine.” The words were one thing. The tone I said them in told a different story.
Spending sixteen hours in the emergency department at West Hills Hospital and Medical Center hadn’t been my idea of an ideal Friday night. Or any night. While the care I’d received was excellent, the episode of food poisoning left me feeling like I’d been to battle—and lost.
The final prognosis—I’d live to see another day. So even though they’d poked and prodded at me and had done what seemed like every test known to modern medicine, the best explanation anyone with a fancy title before or after their name could come up with was I must have eaten something in the previous twenty-four hours that was bad.
And now, here I was, sweltering under the noontime Southern California sun. Thankfully, I’d opted for a pair of loose athletic shorts, in favor of comfort instead of style.
My niece gave me a big wave from the sideline bench, along with a smile as big as her entire face to go with it. A matching one broke out on my mug, and we did our secret sign to one another above the heads of everyone who sat between us. One hand curled into a letter C that formed one half of a heart. When we finally saw each other later, we would push them together to make a whole heart, as we always did, and then I’d scoop her up into my arms for a big Uncle Bas bear hug.
How will I survive when she’s too old for all our special things?
Eventually, it’d happen. She’d become a little shit like all kids do. Her friends would be way cooler than her uncle, and her makeup and her clothes would be much more interesting than the stories I had to share with her about when her mom and I were her age. And so help me God, the first time I saw a boy look in her direction. Even thinking about breathing in the same zip code she lived in . . . I shuddered at the thought.
“You okay?” Pia bumped my shoulder with hers.
“Hmmm? Yeah, fine. Why?” Her question shook me from my murderous daydream. Probably a good thing. We were at a bunch of eight-year-olds’ soccer game, after all.
“You’re growling,” Pia said through gritted teeth, trying not to be overheard. “Honest to God, Bas. Growling.”
“Oh, sorry. It’s nothing,” I said, scowling.
“Thinking about her growing up again, weren’t you?” My sister smiled then, knowing damn well she’d busted me.
I turned on the bleachers to face her. “Are you sure there isn’t a way to stop it? You swear you’ve looked into it? I have money, Pia. So much money.”
“Sebastian. Albert. Shark. Stop.”
I faced the field. “It’s a standing offer. We’ll just leave it at that.”
“Stop. We are not stunting my child’s matriculation because it makes you uncomfortable.”
“Standing offer,” I repeated while holding my hands up in surrender, signaling I was dropping it.
A quick change of subject then. “Is she in goal today?”
“Bas, they’re eight, and this is a rec league. They care more about what they’re having for a snack than they do about the position they’re playing.”
“You’re kind of a downer today, Dub. What’s up?”
“I am not.” She swung her head to look at me, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. Shit. I’d seen that look before. I was still exhausted from the hospital bullshit, and the last thing I wanted was a scene with Pia.
“Sorry.” It wasn’t a word I used carelessly, and very few people deserved to hear it from my lips. Pia would forever be one of those people. She and I went through the shittiest childhood together, and we’d always had each other’s backs.
When our mother died giving birth to our baby brother and our father became best friends with Señor Patron, all we had was one another. Pia had been just three years old. I’d become a little man at the tender age of seven, but I took my role very seriously. My father’s resentment had grown a little more each day. We’d stolen the one thing in his life he truly loved. The one person who had ever loved him in return.
The morning he never woke up from his nightly bender, I didn’t even cry. He was just one less person I had to worry about. One less person to take care of.
Vela’s coach called the girls to a little huddle, and they all put their arms toward the center. She gave them a few more tips on ball handling and then shouted, “On three, Blue Jays!”
The girls all deepened their sweet little voices and chanted with their coach “One! Two! Three! Blue Jays!” Then the swarm of royal-blue jerseys took off running onto the field. Ponytails were popped high on tiny heads with oversize white ribbons that matched the numbers on the backs of their togs.
I focused on our mini number four running as fast her tiny legs could carry her down the field to take her spot in goal. Vela loved playing keeper. If she stuck with the sport and honed the skills of the position, she could really shine. Most players shied away from playing goalie, but a handful were born for the job. If you weren’t naturally fast but could kick hard and you weren’t afraid to dive and put your body in front of the ball, you could be as much of a star on the team as
a midfielder.
We watched the game, cheering the Blue Jays when they had possession and managed to work the ball down toward the opposition’s goal. A father of one of Vela’s teammates paced along the sidelines, yelling at his daughter as if she were playing in a Chivas game. I wanted to stretch my leg out and trip the guy.
Accidentally, of course.
The little girl was so confused, and between her father screaming instructions to her, the coach trying to do her job and coach from her spot on the sideline, and the three officials on the field, she burst into tears and crumpled to a heap in the middle of a play.
“What’s going on?” Pia had been looking down at her phone when the commotion erupted.
“Jesus Christ.” I shook my head in disbelief. “This asshole.” I motioned to the dad with my chin.
Pia followed my gesture, glaring at the parent. “Oh, him again.” She shook her head. “Every single game he does this to her. Even at practice he berates her. I don’t know why the coach doesn’t say something to him. I think she’s afraid of him too. Poor Naya is in tears more than not.”
“This will be the last time it happens,” I growled. Seemed like I was growling a lot today.
“No, Bas. Don’t get involved. Let Coach handle it,” Pia said, gripping my arm again.
“Like she has been?” I retorted through gritted teeth.
“True.” Pia let go of my arm.
“I’m just going to have a conversation with the asshole after the game. Man to man. No fists. Just words.” My voice was eerily calm, and Pia knew not to argue further.
“Bas.”
Well, I thought she did.
“Dub,” I answered back in the same flat tone.
“I’m serious.” She tried to sound threatening. In any other situation, it would be adorable.
“Oh, I know you are, sister. So am I. He’s a fucking bully. And that’s his own kid.” I pointed my finger furiously at Naya, who was still wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “What if he pulled that shit on Vela one day while one of us wasn’t here?” I raised my eyebrows, letting the question paint a horrible picture in my sister’s imagination.
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