“Was everything to your liking?” she asked, hating the need for past tense. She’d made them wait too long.

One of the men offered a pained smile. The others were too cold to bother with politeness. “All done, and we’ll take the cakes and toddies to go,” the man said, gesturing to the women. “It’s more frigid than we thought.”

“Totally understand. No problem.” Tonya began loading the tray, placing the heavier items in the center and on the side nearest her neck. She balanced it on her right hand, bracing it on her shoulder as she opened the restaurant door.

What are you willing to do?

The question resounded in her head as if Nate Walker were standing right behind her. She whirled around, ready to confront the taunting ghost. The tray wobbled atop her palm and then tilted toward the floor like an abruptly abandoned seesaw.

Tonya wrenched her body in the other direction, but it was too late. Glasses and plates smashed against the stained concrete floor. Crash. Bang. Ping. A contemporary classical symphony begging for an operatic opa!

“Shit.” Philip emerged from the kitchen, muttering worse curses. The neck visible above his chef’s jacket was lobster red. His face bore the expression of a fish about to be gutted.

“I’m so sorry, Chef.” Tonya dropped to her knees and began placing shards on her tray, ignoring the needles stabbing through the fabric of her pants. “You can take it out of my tip.”

Saying it sounded ridiculous. The worth of several wineglasses and plates would be far more than her gratuity.

“I’m sorry. I—”

Footsteps cut off her apologies. Out of the corner of her eye, Tonya saw Mike emerge from behind the bar. Juan, one of the dishwashers, was also en route.

I’ll do anything.

Tonya heard herself mutter the words, though they didn’t emerge from her mouth. After speaking them once, she’d promised herself never to say them again. She hadn’t really meant them the first time.

Whatever you need. The memory of her words overwhelmed her murmured apologies. In the distance, someone told her to get up. Someone said that her foot was bleeding.

Anything, her phantom voice echoed. Absolutely anything.

CHAPTER FIVE

IMANI

The murder was so fresh that the press had yet to get creative with headlines. Nate Walker, Acclaimed Director, Dead from Gunshot, was the lead story on the Times’s website. The Post had allowed itself more alliteration and assumption: Nate Walker, Moviemaker, Maybe Murdered in Mansion. But none of the news outlets or blogs were playing with puns involving Nate’s many films, some of which had been crime thrillers.