Philip wasn’t discussing the restaurant, Tonya realized. He was talking about Nate Walker. She felt her body go rigid, as it always did at the mention of Nate’s name. Images flashed in her mind. A glowing cigar cherry. Bleached teeth glinting in dim light. A gold ring tapping a glass tabletop. The same pictures always played when Tonya thought of the renowned director, celebrated family man, philanthropist, and pathological liar. She refused to picture his face.

“Of course I care that he’s dead,” Philip said.

A rush of endorphins shot through her stiff torso. She had the sudden, involuntary urge to laugh or maybe shout. Nate Walker. Dead.

“I’ll do my best.” Philip pressed his fingers into his closed eyes before running them over his head again. “Well, it will have to be. I’ll see you soon.”

He placed the receiver back in its cradle and then stared at it.

“Cake’s up.”

Samuel was back. He marched over to the security grates and slid the plated orders through a deliberately widened space. Tonya blinked at them. Chocolate cake slices did not fit the scenes running through her mind.

Philip noticed her, finally. His eyes were turned to maximum heat. He knew she’d been listening.

Tonya collected the plates. “Do you have cinnamon sticks?” She directed the question to Samuel but said it loud enough for Philip to hear in an attempt to excuse her loitering. “The table asked for hot toddies, and there aren’t any at the bar.”

A vein pulsed above Philip’s thick brows. “Hot toddies aren’t on the drinks menu.”

Tonya’s gaze retreated to her cakes. “I think they wanted something warm.”

Samuel rotated to the pantry. “We have them, I think. One minute.”

Tonya kept her eyes on the desserts’ mirrored chocolate glazes as Samuel slipped into the back. She didn’t want Philip to see the emotion on her face. The glint in her pupils that she could almost see reflected in the dark cocoa ganache.

Though she wasn’t looking at him, Tonya still felt her boss’s critical stare. Chefs prided themselves on tracking everyone in the kitchen, knowing who was distracted and likely to mess up a service, who was hungover and therefore not to be trusted with the heavy machinery—who could get someone killed.

A glass bottle slid across the opening to Tonya. “Cinnamon sticks,” Samuel crowed.

Tonya shoved the ingredient into her apron. Seconds later, she plopped it on the bar along with her cakes and instructions for Mike to watch them for a second. Before he could respond, she was out the front door with a tray in hand.

“How’s it going?”

Her voice sounded like grass in a strong wind, too breathy to be intelligible. Still, the igloo patrons looked up. Two had nearly finished their meals. The other two, both women, had left about a third on their plates.