Suddenly, the pressure released. She doubled over, coughing. Melissa saw the sliver of light like before. She crawled toward it, advancing a foot before she heard the dull thud of the door closing. Again, she was locked in darkness. Only this time, she knew It would never let her leave.

PART THREE

PART THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

TONYA

She needed a drink. As Tonya squeegeed the exterior of the walk-in fridge, she could think of little else than the taste of tequila, the feel of it sliding down her throat, smoky and sharp with a hint of citrus. She imagined how it would work its magic, relaxing her tired muscles and blurring the image of Imani’s disdainful expression as she’d demanded that Tonya throw out her hard-earned groceries and then acted appalled by what Tonya had considered a generous counteroffer not to microwave the PB&Js in the house. One little shot of Cuervo would soften everything. Unfortunately, dulling her constant thoughts of Melissa and Mike and everyone else involved in the sordid events of the last several days would require a whole bottle.

Tonya swapped the squeegee for a shammy and began drying the fridge door. She moved her hand in circles. Wax on. Wax off. The Karate Kid was before her time, but she’d resurrected the film to watch with Layla because of the iconic lines and high rating on family movie websites. Mr. Miyagi’s moral was that mundane tasks could teach valuable lessons. But what lesson was there in clean the fridge? Don’t sleep with high-powered men who suggest they can leverage their influence to launch careers? Don’t fall for the married friends of such men? Don’t have the baby thinking that, maybe, it will all work out?

Tonya slapped the towel against her arm before putting it down. Shame on her for thinking that way. It had all worked out. Her daughter was worth every indignity. She would scrub a million fridges for Layla. She’d done far worse than that.

Still, she really wanted a drink.

Tonya tiptoed toward the dining room. A metallic rattling stopped her. It was a strange noise for a restaurant, more befitting a ship or a construction site. She whirled around, scanning for an item coming loose from a wall or the ceiling. There was the sound of something spinning followed by a thud.

Tonya strained to hear more. Footsteps were followed by the creak of a door opening and closing. The front door, Tonya assumed. Someone had come into the dining room—and left—through the patrons’ entrance.

After hours, that door was typically bolted shut. She wondered who would have the code to the electronic lock. Philip, surely. Perhaps a building maintenance crew. Tonya could also imagine the head chef doling it out to business partners or anyone he trusted to deal with deliveries relating to the bar. Mike had possessed it at some point, hadn’t he?