Page 2 of The Witness

“Sabrina, if there was another way…” Lewis trailed off.

“When I agreed to cook brunch for six people on a yacht, my biggest concern was how to tactfully invite the yacht owner to the opening of Viande. I wish I’d never heard the name Rafa Sandoval.”

“You’re not the only person to make that wish. Sandoval is bad news on a global scale. I’m not confident the FBI can protect you from his network. That’s why I sent your information up the chain of command and called in witness protection. This isn’t permanent.” He met my gaze and placed a hand over his heart.

“I know. That’s what you told me. But I’m so close, Lewis. My dream of opening a restaurant is coming true. The construction at Viande is almost done. You should see the space. The imported marble counters, the hand-painted tile behind the bar, and my kitchen: it’s glorious. I picked every detail. And now I’ve had to put everything on pause.” I took my frustrations out on a paper napkin, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it down on thetable. Not only were there the delays in construction and menu testing, but I’d had to cancel all the holiday catering gigs I had booked. The lost revenue was going to hurt for a long time.

“Doing the right thing isn’t easy.”

“Damn, I hate this.”

“I’m sorry.” He bowed his head, breaking our visual connection.

We sat in silence, my leg bouncing under the table. Waiting for food I didn’t want and the agents from witness protection who would hide me away until Sandoval wasbrought to justice. That phrase was so vague a measure of time as to be almost laughable. Even a few weeks away from the restaurant would ruin everything. I shouldn’t have called Lewis. Shouldn’t have told anyone that I knew who killed that actress. Having a conscience sucked.

“The breakfast casserole. And two poached eggs.” Without ceremony, the server dropped our plates in front of us.

I stared down at my bowl of eggs. The two white mounds floated in a few teaspoons of tepid water streaked with filmy egg whites. A triangle of pale toast was wedged next to the bowl on the plate. My lip curled as I blotted at the water with a paper napkin.

“Ugh, why sell poached eggs if you can’t do it right? How’s yours?”

Lewis shrugged and covered the congealed cheese on top of the casserole with hot sauce. “You don’t really come here for the food.”

The excess water sopped up, I cut into the eggs. Instead of the magnificent rush of golden yolk I’d anticipated, my fork stuck in a rubbery overcooked lump more like a tennis ball than a poached egg.

I pushed away the plate. “I can’t.”

Normally I’d have accepted that this was as good as I was getting but today—nope. Those over cooked eggs were the difference between sanity and a full breakdown. Everything I worked so hard for at Viande was in jeopardy and these shitty eggs had done it. They pushed me over the edge. No matter how temporary my time in witness protection might be, it could ruin everything. Just like these eggs were ruining breakfast.

From my backpack’s outer pocket, I retrieved my chef’s thermometer. I stood and grabbed my plate. “I’ll be right back.”

Lewis froze, a fork full of potato and egg mush held inches from his mouth. “Sabrina.”

I didn’t hesitate. I marched the offending eggs toward the kitchen. The chef was about to get schooled.

I burst through the swinging doors and into a humid fog I knew well, the combination of dishwasher steam and cooking grease. Immediately, I could tell the back of the house was as ill-kempt and poorly run as the front. A large man in a dirty sleeveless undershirt and grimy white-ish apron stood over the grill shouting at his staff. The diner wasn’t even half full. His poor kitchen management was the only reason for the chaos back here.

The chef had his back to me. I tapped his sweat-slicked bare shoulder and braced for the explosion.

“Who the fuck are you?” His shouted words bounced off my armor. I’d had scarier men than him come at me in the kitchen.

“A better cook than you.” I shoved the eggs at him. “This is an embarrassment.”

“You think you can do better?” He propped the fist clutching a spatula on his hip and looked down his nose at me, ignoring my over-cooked eggs.

“Any half decent cook or culinary student can.” I jabbed the rubbery egg with my finger. It sprung back into shape and jiggled in its slimy, wet bowl.

On the back of the flat-top sat a stainless steel, half-length, 6-inch-deep hotel pan filled with whitish water. My lip curled in disgust. That was not how to poach eggs. “When was the last time you changed out the water in that cesspool?”

The chef grunted and plated a pair of sunny side up eggs from the other side of the flattop. It was the best food I’d seen come out of this kitchen today.

I shoved my thermometer into the poaching pan, the temperature well below the ideal of 180 degrees. The wispy ghosts of egg whites past clouded the water so badly I couldn’t see the bottom. I took a clean saucier pan from the station to my left and filled it with 2 inches of hot water from the reservoir on a back burner and put it on the heat.

“One hundred and eighty degrees, just under a simmer. Now give me a fine-mesh strainer and cold eggs. These will not work.” I waved at the flat of sweating eggs resting on the counter.

“Like I have time for this shit.” The cook grumbled, not moving to get me what I asked for.

“Cooking is all you have time for. It’s your job. Show some pride.”

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