Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 214

Abby

Once the health inspector has his samples, I see him and Mr. Thompson off at the door. Mr. Thompson gives me that disappointed look of his again, and it makes my heart sink even further than it already has.

“The tests should come back from the lab within a week,” the health inspector, Mr. Harrison, says in that matter-of-fact tone. “For now, you are formally requested to close your restaurant.”

Without another word, he hands me an official health department notice that I’m to put up in the restaurant window. My hands shake as I take it, and my eyes fill with tears. The health inspector walks away, leaving just me and Mr. Thompson in his wake, standing in the doorway of my restaurant.

“Mr. Thompson, I—”

“Abby,” he interrupts coldly, “if you receive any requests for interviews, please decline. There’s enough bad press as it is. Understood?”

I nod stiffly, feeling oddly numb after all of this. Mr. Thompson turns on his heel to leave, but before he’s a few steps away, I clear my throat and call after him.

“Mr. Thompson?”

He pauses, stiffening, before slowly turning to look at me. “Yes?”

“You know it’s not my fault, right? You know this has to be sabotage?”

Mr. Thompson stares at me for a long time. His expression is unreadable, and that’s more terrifying than anything else. Finally, averting his gaze to the floor, he speaks in a hushed tone.

“Abby, you can’t just assume that everything is sabotage,” he says quietly and with a mixture of sadness and disappointment in his voice. “I’ve advocated for you enough already. I think it’s about time you start taking accountability.”

Without another word, Mr. Thompson turns on his heel again and strides away, his tall form disappearing down the street. I watch him go with tears in my eyes, my body trembling in an attempt to hold back a sob. Once he’s out of sight, I avert my gaze to the notice in my hand once more.

“OFFICIAL NOTICE: Health Code Investigation Underway,”the notice reads.

I want to crumple it up and throw it on the ground, but I know I can’t. Instead, with shaking hands, I do what I’ve been told to do: I tape it up in the window of the front door, turn off the lights, and grab my keys.

I turn the key in the lock with a heavy heart, but there’s a hint of hope there, too. All I can do for now is hope that those samples will come back negative, exonerating me from my supposed mistakes.

Because I know that that food poisoning couldn’t have come from my kitchen, even if I’m the only one who believes it.

As I make my way back toward the subway station, I hear my name being called from behind.

“Hey! Abby!”

I turn around to see a small group of people standing on the sidewalk, their faces contorted with anger and disdain. They start hurling insults at me, each word more venomous than the last.

“Abby, you’re a fraud!”one of them shouts. “You never deserved that second chance after your disaster of a performance at the cook-off.”

My chest tightens, and I try to hold back tears as I respond, “You all know I was sabotaged during the cook-off. It’s widely known.”

But they just scoff and roll their eyes, dismissing my words as if they’re nothing more than lame excuses. “Yeah, right,” another person sneers. “You probably set that up yourself to get sympathy.”

Their hurtful words cut deep, and I feel like I’m being torn apart by their judgment. With tears in my eyes, I turn away and continue on my way home, doing my best to ignore their hateful voices as they fade into the background.

However, as I walk through the city streets, I can’t escape the feeling of being watched. I glance around nervously, my heart pounding in my chest. The weight of the accusations and the public’s condemnation is suffocating, and I need a moment to collect myself.

I decide to stop at my usual local cafe for a cup of coffee, hoping that it will help calm my frayed nerves. But as I step inside, I’m greeted by a familiar sight on the cafe’s television screen.

A news channel is broadcasting a report about the Alpha gathering disaster, and my face is front and center. The headline reads,“Caterer Abby Under Fire for Alpha Party Food Poisoning.”

I feel the weight of the world crashing down on me as I order a coffee to go. The barista eyes me sympathetically, but I can’t bear to stay in the cafe a moment longer. I grab my coffee and make a hasty exit, my heart pounding with the knowledge that, no matter how hard I try, people just hate me now.

Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?

Finally, I arrive home after what feels like an eternity, and the solitude of my apartment offers some relief from the relentless scrutiny of the outside world. I slump into a chair and bury my face in my hands, trying to block out the hurtful words and accusations that still echo in my mind.

But my moment of solitude is short-lived as my phone rings, the shrill sound slicing through the air. I glance at the caller ID, and it’s an unknown number. My first instinct is to let it go to voicemail, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I answer.

“Hello?” I say cautiously.

“Is this Chef Abby, the caterer for the Alpha gathering?” a female voice on the other end asks.

I swallow hard, my throat tight with anxiety. “Yes, this is Abby. Who’s calling?”

“Hello,” the woman says. “My name is Patricia Koehler. I’m a journalist from the Daily News. Do you have a moment?”

As she speaks, I can feel my throat clench. Mr. Thompson warned me that this would happen. And he was crystal clear when he told me that Icannotdo any interviews. Considering that I’m already in deep enough trouble as it is, I know it’s best to listen to his advice, no matter how badly I want to attempt to make people see the light on my own.

I take a moment to gather my thoughts, and then I respond with a heavy sigh, “I’m sorry, but I cannot comment at this time.”

The journalist pauses before clearing her throat. “Are you sure? I only need a few minutes—”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t comment,” I repeat. “Have a nice day.”

The journalist continues to try to convince me, but I ignore her. I hang up without another word, then toss my phone down on the opposite end of the couch with a sigh.

All at once, another wave of anguish breaks through the numbness, a silent sob quaking my body. I don’t understand how this happened, not one bit; and I’m almost certain that this was some form of sabotage. After all, it had to be.

My mind flickers back to all of the incidents over the past few months: the fire, the cook-off, the cut wires, the burst pipe, the first food poisoning incident, the stranger lurking around my apartment building… and now this?

None of it makes any sense.

And that’s why, as I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand, a new sense of determination begins to settle in my chest. There’s no knowing what will come back on those samples, so that’s not something I can hedge my bets on. No, just as always, I need to handle this myself if I want people to see the truth.

So I need to do some investigating of my own.