Today's Reading

Mentally running through the recipes she'd be preparing for her afternoon client, she hurried through the large mudroom, past the half bath, and into the spacious kitchen replete with granite countertops and high-end appliances.

All for show rather than utility, though. From what she'd gathered, the only real cooking that happened here occurred on the days she came.

Except...

She paused. Sniffed.
 
The distinctive smell of charred bread—along with another faint scent, indistinct as it mingled with the stronger odor—suggested someone had used a toaster very recently.

She glanced across the center island, toward the sink. Yep. A crumb-filled plate stood on the counter beside it.

But cleanup in the Robertsons' kitchen wasn't on her agenda today. Lindsey continued to the island, where she always did her mise en place.

And there'd been a ton of it yesterday, thanks to the complicated menu Heidi had selected. But chopping, cutting, peeling, slicing, and grating all the ingredients up front was super efficient.

One of the many valuable lessons she'd learned in culinary school. She scanned the long island that ran parallel to the sink.

No knife roll.

Propping her hands on her hips, Lindsey gave the large room a once-over. Ah. There it was. Over on the coffee bar in the far corner, past the second island with stools that faced into the kitchen and doubled as an eat-in counter.

She must have put it there while she was cleaning up.

Sport shoes noiseless on the tile floor, she hurried across the room. If a chef without her knife roll wasn't akin to a surgeon without a scalpel, she'd have skipped this unplanned detour. Wedging it in after shopping for today's ingredients had cut into her afternoon cooking schedule.

She rounded the corner of the second island, strode toward the coffee bar—and jerked to a stop as a scream bubbled up in her throat.

Between the main island and the sink, a man lay sprawled on his stomach on the floor, his vacant pupils aimed her direction. Beneath his center mass, a crimson pool stained the white tile. A half-eaten bagel lay beside him.

It was James Robertson, based on the photos she'd found of him on the internet while researching the couple after securing this chef gig.

And he was dead. Even worse?

The location of the blood suggested he hadn't died of natural causes.

Lindsey grabbed the edge of the island to steady herself. Tried to suck in air.

She had to call 911.

And she would. As soon as the room stopped spinning and she could—

The toilet in the guest bathroom flushed.

As her brain did the math, another shock wave rolled through her.

The person responsible for James's demise was still here. And the murderer was between her and the back door.

Heart stuttering, she gave the room a frantic sweep.

Could she make a run toward the front of the house? Try to—

The knob on the bathroom door rattled, and panic squeezed the oxygen from her lungs.

Too late.

She was trapped.

Letting her instincts take over, she dropped to her knees, edged the last two stools closer together, and tucked herself under the island.
...

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