Tonya grabbed her coat off the bed where she’d thrown it earlier. She slipped an arm into a sleeve. With luck, she could catch Philip before the chefs started arriving to prep for the dinner service. As Imani would say, they could have a discussion.

*  *  *

The staff entrance was dark. Tonya passed through anyway, sliding her hands along the brick made oleaginous by aerosolized cooking oils. There would be a light switch somewhere within the first few feet. Chefs did not want to stumble into a dark kitchen on a daily basis.

As Tonya felt her way along the wall, she heard metallic taps coming from somewhere overhead. The pings sounded every few seconds, too steady to be random, not timed perfectly enough to be mechanical. Melting snow, maybe. Tonya supposed water could be seeping through the building’s roof and striking the ceiling pipes.

Finally, the tip of her finger snagged a different surface, smoother and more worn than the brick. Plastic, if she hazarded a guess. She pressed the bottom of the tab and braced herself.

Pot lights flickered on. Some of them were missing, Tonya realized. Several of the ceiling bulbs, including the one directly above her head, remained dark despite the fluorescent glow of their neighbors. It was dangerous to have burned-out bulbs in a kitchen. Chefs could cut themselves. She should tell Philip.

Thinking about her boss brought the reason that she’d come to the forefront of her mind. She would ask Philip to talk Imani down, explain that his wife’s grief over her friend’s actions had led her to develop insane theories. She’d ask him to let her remain in his home until her unemployment checks arrived and it became possible to rent elsewhere. If he said no, she’d bring up her own suspicions about his parents and subtly suggest that no one need know about ancient family history, providing that he help her for a few months.

He’d take the deal, she figured. Every other man in her life had been willing to pay for her silence. And she wasn’t even asking for money in this instance. She was simply buying time.

Tonya passed the mop basin and stepped into the kitchen. The stainless-steel countertops gleamed under the lights, a cloud-covered ocean waiting for the storm to come, the frenzy of blades and bodies, flames and animal flesh.

“Philip?”

Her own voice echoed back to her. He had to be here, Tonya thought. The world was shut down. There was nowhere to go but home, and Philip truly lived inside Banque Gauche’s kitchen.

She removed her coat and hung it on one of the hooks for staff garments. “Philip,” she called out again, advancing farther into the space. “It’s Tonya. Can we talk?”