I walk back to the bar, sit down, sip my wine, and accept a fluffy sweet potato puff from the chef before I line all my notecards up for my viewing. I scan them and decide one thing only: the puff is delicious. I’ve got nothing else, aside from the need for more information. I grab my phone and dial Lucas, who really should be here by now. He doesn’t answer. I text him: Where the hell are you and that cake?

Reaching for my wine glass, I sip and wait. No reply. Another sip. Still no reply. An uneasy feeling burns in my belly and I push it aside. He’s afraid of Kane. That’s the bottom line. That chickenshit. I dial him again. He doesn’t answer. My fingers thrum on the counter and a prickling sensation has my gaze lifting. The chef is not in the room, but Naomi is standing on the opposite side of the kitchen island staring at me.

A panicked look slides over her pretty face and she grabs a tray. “Puff pastry?” She rushes toward me.

I flashback to the woman on the floor, blood pouring out of her mouth and neck. It sure as hell reads like poisonings I’ve seen in the past. Of course, there were the ruptures in her throat but no exterior wounds and I’ve seen some wicked things with toxins. Suddenly, the puff pastries suck. Naomi shoves the tray at me. I stand up and confront her. “How long have you been with the chef?”

“I—I—why?”

“How long?” I demand.

“I don’t work for him. Not full time. He needed help today. I agreed.”

“What’s your job?”

“I work for a service. I sous chef for a pool of elite chefs. The service that coordinates it all called me this morning.”

Nothing about this reads right. “And you’re fucking Chef Roswell?”

Her spine stiffens. “That’s not appropriate.”

“That’s a yes. What’s your full name?”

“I don’t understand—”

“Do you know who I am?” I challenge.

She blinks and cuts her stare. That’s another yes. “Who you are?” she coos, all innocent, which she is not. Playing stupid is stupid. Jesus, help me. I’ll go back to church—I promise—to spare me the stupid of the world. And if you don’t strike me down when I enter the church.

“Special Agent Lilah Love,” I say. “What’s your full name?”

Her lashes lower and she wets her lips before she forces her gaze to mine. “Naomi—”

“Last name,” I snap.

“Wells,” she replies.

Wells.

Of course, it is, I think. And why wouldn’t our sous chef have the same last name as the victim of a murder last night? “What’s your connection to Emily Wells?”