Chapter 1 - The Flying Radish
The first thing Grant Mercer tasted was pepper.
The second was blood.
The third was raw white radish.
One moment, he was lifting a forkful of seared black cod toward his mouth inside one of Chicago’s most expensive restaurants.
The next, something white streaked across the dining room.
His plate exploded sideways.
Porcelain hit the floor.
A thick piece of radish struck his lips and wedged halfway into his open mouth.
Grant bit down by reflex.
Pain shot through his jaw.
The dining room went silent.
Grant slowly stood.
Forty years old.
Six feet two.
Built like a man who paid trainers to make sure every room noticed him before he spoke.
His charcoal suit probably cost more than the server’s monthly salary.
He ripped the radish from his mouth.
“Which bitch did this?”
Nobody moved.
Then he saw her.
Molly Reed.
Twenty-nine.
Plus-size.
Brown hair tied back.
Restaurant uniform.
Standing ten feet away with an empty prep bowl in her hands.
Terrified.
But not running.
Grant crossed the room.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Molly’s lips parted.
Before she could answer, Grant slapped her.
The impact spun her toward the wall.
She caught herself with one palm, stunned.
A few diners gasped.
Someone lifted a phone.
Grant pointed at her.
“You brought this on yourself.”
Then something strange happened.
Molly turned.
Fear disappeared.
Not entirely.
But enough.
“It wasn’t my idea.”
Grant frowned.
“What?”
She pointed toward the open kitchen.
“Him.”
Chef Thomas Vale stood beneath the warm lights.
Fifty-one.
White chef’s jacket.
Arms folded.
Completely calm.
Grant stared at him.
Thomas smiled.
Not kindly.
Not nervously.
Like a man who had been waiting for this exact moment.
Grant took one step toward him.
“Was it you?”
Thomas looked at the shattered plate.
Then at Grant.
“Yes.”
The room shifted.
Grant expected apology.
Instead Thomas said:
“You should thank me.”
Grant laughed.
“For what?”
Thomas looked toward the food scattered across the floor.
“For stopping you before you swallowed that.”
Grant’s smile vanished.
“What are you talking about?”
Thomas did not answer.
He walked over.
Picked up one piece of black cod using a clean kitchen towel.
Then placed it inside a stainless-steel container.
Molly suddenly whispered:
“Chef…”
Thomas looked at her.
“Call 911.”
Grant scoffed.
“For a piece of fish?”
“No.”
Thomas met his eyes.
May you like
“For whoever poisoned your dinner.”
And behind Grant, a young busboy quietly slipped through the kitchen door.
