Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 222

Abby

The next day passes by in a blur. I can’t bear to tell my friends about the call from the health department; not yet, at least. Not until I know for certain.

My body feels heavy as I roll out of bed and make my way to the kitchen to make some coffee. It’s already eleven in the morning, but I’ve only just woken up. I’m sure I look like a mess, too; my hair is tangled, my eyes are surrounded by dark circles, and I’m in my disheveled pajamas. I’m just too exhausted to care.

Maybe my exhaustion is exactly why, when I hear my doorbell ring, I don’t think twice. Rubbing my eyes, I shuffle over to the door and swing it open.

And that’s when the microphone is shoved into my face.

“Abby! Why did you intentionally poison the guests at the Alpha gathering?”

My eyes widen as I take in the scene in front of me. There’s a reporter standing on my front step, shoving a microphone at me. There are two cameramen behind her, and both cameras are trained on me.

I shield my face from the unrelenting camera flashes and go to close the door, but the reporter has shoved her foot in the doorway to stop it from closing. Surely this is illegal, right?

“Please leave,” I mutter, trying to nudge her foot out of the way. “Don’t make me call the police.”

“Abby, it’s just one question,” she replies without budging.

I sigh. At this point, I just want to do whatever it takes to get her to go away. “Look,” I say, “I didn’t do anything intentionally. It was—”

The reporter cuts me off, immediately twisting my words. “So, you admit that your food was poisoned?”

My heart races. “No, that’s not what I meant. It wasn’t my—”

But the reporter persists, her voice raising. “Do you plan on confessing to your crimes? Or are you just going to frame someone else for sabotage, like you did at the cook-off?”

“I didn’t—”

Before I can finish my sentence, the reporter continues to talk over me, the microphone inches from my face, her words relentless. I can feel my world spiraling out of control as she continues to ask her venomous questions.

Finally, I manage to shove her foot out of the way and slam the door shut. Without a moment’s hesitation, I immediately rush through my entire house, closing blinds and curtains, double-checking locks on windows and doors in a futile attempt to regain a semblance of safety and privacy.

Once I’ve sealed myself away from the prying eyes of the outside world, I sink down onto the couch, my head buried in my trembling hands. The relentless intrusion has left me feeling violated and powerless. I feel like an animal at the zoo, trapped and on display against my will.

Hours pass in suffocating silence. I manage to shower and drink my coffee, but not much else. I feel like I’m on autopilot.

I can’t help but think to myself that if I had known that I would be getting this much attention, I never would have agreed to the cook-off to begin with. I just want to go back to being a nobody, a meaningless restaurant owner in a sea of mediocrity. I think that would have been much easier.

Finally, I turn on the TV for the first time in days, figuring that a movie might help me get my mind off of things. But as the screen flickers to life, I’m immediately met with a news channel—the very last thing I had been watching before I shut my TV off several days ago.

The news anchor’s voice is unforgiving as the clips of me from this morning are smattered across the screen.

“This latest footage is just further proof that Abby intentionally poisoned the guests at the Alpha gathering,” he says, showing footage of me not only kicking the reporter’s foot out of the way and shielding my face from the camera, but also violatory clips taken through my windows; I can be seen shutting the blinds, the shaky camera footage creating an illusion of a woman gone mad.

“I knew Abby was guilty,” the other reporter, a woman, says with a shake of her head. She then looks directly into the camera. “Abby, just fess up to your crimes. Trust us; it will be easier. Wouldn’t you rather have a clear conscience?”

I can’t bear to listen any longer. I abruptly shut off the television, my hands trembling with anger.

“There’s nothing to fess up to,” I hiss through my teeth, standing. “This is all bullshit!”

Without thinking, I grab a nearby pillow and hurl it across the room in a fit of rage. The force of the impact knocks a fragile vase off a side table. It shatters into a thousand pieces on the floor.

“Shit,” I murmur, realizing what I’ve done.

In my frenzied state, I rush to clean up the shards of glass. But then, as I gather the scattered remnants, I accidentally cut my hand on a sharp shard.

A single drop of blood drips onto the floor, staining my white carpet.

Finally, defeated and emotionally drained, I collapse onto my knees on the floor, my tears flowing freely. Right now, I feel like the vase: broken, shattered, and angry.

However, as I sit there, sobbing, a sound breaks through the silence.

It’s my phone ringing on the coffee table.

I sigh, wiping away the lingering tears, and drag myself up from the floor. As I approach the phone, I catch a glimpse of my disheveled reflection in the glass of the table, and I quickly run my fingers through my hair, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

Then I see it: it’s Karl, FaceTiming me.

I hesitate for a moment, taking in the name on the screen. For a moment, I consider not answering; but I know Karl, and I know he’ll just keep trying until I finally cave. Sighing, I wipe my tears away with my sleeve and swipe to answer. I’m met with his concerned face.

“Hey,” I say, my voice shaky despite my attempts to sound normal.

Karl’s brow furrows as he studies my face. “I saw the news,” he says without preamble. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t buy it, not even for an instant. “I can tell you’ve been crying, Abby. Talk to me.”

I look away, my gaze falling to the shattered vase on the floor. There’s no point in lying; Karl has always been able to tell when I’m upset. And besides, there’s no hiding it now. My eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, my face still streaked with tears.

“The samples came back positive,” I manage, although my voice is shaking. “My restaurant might be shut down, Karl.”

Karl is silent for a few moments, processing, before he answers. “And the CCTV footage?” he asks.

I shrug. “They said they sent it in for analyzing. That was days ago, Karl. It’s not looking good.”

His jaw clenches, and I can see a whole host of emotions flitting through his eyes. “Abby,” he finally says, “I’m worried. Those reporters… They’re vultures. I think you should come here with me. Get out of the city for a little while.”

I glance toward the door, my heart sinking at the sight of the news vans and reporters still camped outside my house. “I might have to,” I say, my voice filled with resignation.

Karl seems distracted for a moment. I know his mind is preoccupied with his election, an election that I don’t want to distract him from.

“Look, Abby,” he finally says. “I’m dealing with this election…”

“I don’t want to distract you,” I interrupt.

But he shakes his head. “That’s not what I was saying. I’m trying to say that, no matter what, I’m here for you. And if you need to come here, don’t let this election or anything else stop you. Just say the word and I’ll do whatever I can.”

His words make me soften. For a moment, we just look at each other, and I can feel my heart skip as I look into his soft brown eyes. Even through the phone screen, they look clear and gentle as ever.

I’m just about to open my mouth to say something, to tell him that I want to leave and come stay with him.

But before I can utter a word, a sudden noise outside catches my attention. Someone is knocking on my back door. I rush over to the kitchen window that looks out into the alley and peek through the blinds, my eyes widening as I see a police car parked out back.

I quickly turn back to the screen, my heart pounding. “Karl, I have to go,” I say, my voice trembling.

He looks at me, concern etched into his features. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, I’m already hanging up the phone.