Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 215

Abby

Today has been a whirlwind of frustration and disappointment.

After the health inspector shut down my restaurant and the news media turned against me, I know I have to do something. I can’t just sit around and let my reputation crumble without a fight.

So, I decide to take matters into my own hands and try to unravel the mystery behind the string of unfortunate incidents that have befallen my business.

I’ve been pacing back and forth in my living room for nearly an hour, pondering how to go about this. My phone has practically been ringing nonstop, and finally, I decide to answer it with a sigh.

It’s Chloe.

“What is it?” I bark, far more sharply than I meant to.

Chloe pauses for a moment, and I can tell she’s perturbed. “Abby, honey,” she finally says in a cautious tone, “are you okay?”

I stop my pacing, chewing my lower lip. “Well, not really,” I admit with a wry chuckle. “This is bullshit. All of it.”

“I know,” Chloe says with a sigh. “How are you holding up?”

I pause for a moment as I look around at my living room. It’s a bit of a mess right now; at some point, during my frantic search for information, I dug through my filing cabinet to find the documents from the potential arson case that went nowhere. Papers are scattered all around my coffee table.

“I’m, um, fine,” I say. “Just trying to figure stuff out.”

She sighs again. “You’re playing detective, aren’t you?”

Her words hit home. She knows me too well; there’s no sense in hiding it.

“Yeah, I’m trying to get to the bottom of it,” I say. “Chloe, my kitchen has always been spotless. Up until the cooking competition business started, I had never had a food poisoning outbreak; so how is it that, all of a sudden, I’m getting two back-to-back—one of which is the Alpha gathering?”

Chloe is silent for several moments. My words all just came out in a rush, and I realize that I sound a little crazy right now.

“Abby,” she says cautiously, “I understand where you’re coming from. But—”

“No buts,” I say with an exasperated sigh. “I know this wasn’t my fault. And you can all think I’m crazy, but I’m getting to the bottom of this. Goodbye.”

Before Chloe can answer, I’m hanging up the phone and tossing it down on the couch, returning once more to my investigation.

First on my list is to review the CCTV footage from the restaurant. I spend hours going through the recordings, starting with the first food poisoning incident that occurred right before the cook-off.

I watch as my staff rushes around the kitchen, preparing the meal that we shared the day before the cook-off. But nothing is amiss, no matter how hard I search; they’re all just as professional as ever, washing their hands, disinfecting tools, and cleaning surfaces.

Dead end.

Next, I examine the recordings from the night of the burst pipe and electrical outage. Right up until the point when the power went out, there’s nothing. No hooded figures, no one shoving stuff down my drain, no one even walking in the general direction of the basement door.

Another dead end.

Feeling a bit more frustrated now, I move on to the recordings from the day of the Alpha party. I watch as my team and I prepare the food and set up the dining area.

Everything seems perfectly normal. Once again, the entire restaurant is spotless, and all of my staff are as professional as they possibly can be. I watch intently for hours until my head throbs, watching every movement, every tiny detail, over and over again.

But nothing is amiss.

Frustration gnaws at me as I continue to search through the footage, hoping to find some clue, some hint of foul play. But it’s all in vain. The CCTV footage reveals nothing that can explain the outbreak.

I sigh and lean back in my chair, feeling defeated. It seems like I’m chasing shadows, and I have no leads to follow. But I can’t give up. I have to keep digging, keep searching for answers.

I spend the rest of the night wondering what my next move should be. I barely sleep, barely eat, barely even rest. And by the time the sun comes up in the morning, I have a next step planned out.

With renewed determination, I decide to pay a visit to the art gallery next door to my restaurant.

The owner, Mr. Caldwell, is a snobbish man who has always been difficult to deal with, but I have known him for ages, and I have catered more than one gallery exhibition for him. I hope that our history will be enough to persuade him to cooperate.

I walk into the gallery and find Mr. Caldwell standing near one of the exhibits, his nose in the air as he examines a painting. I approach him, feeling a bit uneasy.

“Mr. Caldwell,” I say, trying to keep my tone polite, “I need a favor.”

He turns to me, his expression one of mild annoyance. “Abby,” he says, “I’m in the middle of something important. Can this wait?”

I take a deep breath and decide to push. “It’s about the CCTV footage from your security cameras,” I say. “I need to see the recordings from a few specific dates.”

Mr. Caldwell raises an eyebrow. “And why should I help you with that?”

I hesitate for a moment, choosing my words carefully. “You’ve known me for a long time, Mr. Caldwell,” I say. “I’ve always been a loyal customer, and I’ve done a lot of business with you. I’m in a difficult situation right now, and I could really use your help.”

“What makes you think thatmyCCTV footage could help your little situation?”

“Because,” I reply, feeling a little more annoyed now, “I know you have cameras all around the perimeter of your building, including the alleyway between our businesses. Surely you can see my entrances on your cameras, can’t you?”

He sighs and looks me up and down, as if sizing me up. “Very well,” he says begrudgingly. “But this had better not take too long. I have a collector coming in an hour.”

Relief washes over me as Mr. Caldwell leads me to his office, where he has a computer set up to access the CCTV footage. I explain the dates I’m interested in, and he begins searching through the recordings.

We watch the footage together, starting with the day of the first food poisoning incident. I see myself and my staff coming in and out of the restaurant, but nothing seems out of the ordinary.

We move on to the day of the pipe burst and the electrical problems. Again, I watch as my usual staff comes in and out, but there is no one who doesn’t belong.

Finally, we reach the date of the Alpha party. I hold my breath as I watch the recording, hoping against hope that I will find some clue, some evidence of what has gone wrong. But as the minutes tick by, it becomes clear that there is nothing unusual in the footage.

“See?” he says as he flicks through the footage. “Nothing.”

I can’t hide my disappointment. He’s right; there is nothing. “Try the alley footage,” I say, still determined. “There has to be something.

He complies with a sigh, flipping to the alley footage. I watch the dark alleyway from the night of the Alpha party, searching for any hidden figures or anything of the sort.

But there’s nothing. Just an empty alleyway. At one point, I can see myself slip out in my party dress to get a breath of fresh air, but there’s nothing else.

I’m about to give up and leave when something catches my eye.

In the corner of the screen, I see a figure, wearing a black hooded jacket, walking past the alley. They seem to stop, look around, and then turn. And then they’re gone, out of sight. I point at the screen, my heart pounding.

“There!” I say, my heart pounding. “Who is that?”

“Just a passerby,” Mr. Caldwell says with annoyance. “Abby, I really don’t have time—”

“Just… Go back,” I insist. “Where did he go?”

Mr. Caldwell does as I ask, and we watch the figure’s approach in slow motion. Once again, he stops, looks around, and then turns. But he doesn’t just disappear; he slips into the alley, sticking to the shadows. His clothes are so dark that I missed it the first time, but I can see him now.

And he’s headed toward the side door to my restaurant.

I furrow my brow as I pull out my phone to retrieve the footage from my own cameras on that night. But on my footage, at the exact same time, it’s completely different.

I can see the figure walking past, but after he stops and looks around, he just keeps going. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t disappear. He just walks down the street.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” I say, holding my phone out so Mr. Caldwell can see. “Do you see that? The footage is different.”

Mr. Caldwell looks at me with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. “What are you getting at, Abby?”

I shake my head, my thoughts raging in my head. “I don’t know,” I say. “But I think we just found something. Thank you, Mr. Caldwell. Can you please send me a copy of that clip?”

Mr. Caldwell pauses, looking over the rim of his glasses at me, but finally nods. “Very well, Abby,” he says.

As I leave the art gallery, my mind is buzzing with questions and possibilities. I feel like I just stumbled upon a clue, a piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit.

Who is this hooded figure? And how is it possible that the footage from the same night, at the same time, is completely different?