“Odessa?”
“My dad.”
Mateo looked toward her.
“You never talk about him.”
“He cooked.”
“Where?”
Nia hesitated.
Then looked toward the kitchen door.
“Here.”
Mateo stared.
“What?”
“Long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Twenty-one years.”
“Under who?”
Nia closed the notebook.
“Before Warren was executive chef.”
Mateo’s expression changed.
“Did Warren know him?”
Nia looked at him.
“I don’t know.”
That was not completely true.
Her father’s name was Andre Brooks.
He had died when Nia was sixteen.
Stroke at forty-four.
Too young.
Too sudden.
He had rarely discussed his years in fine dining.
When Nia asked why he left professional kitchens, he always said:
Because I wanted to cook somewhere people got to eat before midnight.
Later he worked hospital food service.
Then ran a cafeteria kitchen at a community center.
He loved both.
But there were things inside his old notebooks that never made sense.
Names crossed out.
Restaurants.
Vesper House appeared several times.
So did a younger Warren Sloan.
Nia had applied for the dishwashing job partly because she needed money.
Partly because she wanted to stand in the kitchen where her father once stood.
She had never told anyone.
At two in the morning she got home.
Her mother was awake.
Denise Brooks sat at the kitchen table in a robe, reading prescription paperwork beneath a weak yellow light.
She looked up.
“You’re late.”
“Development meeting.”
Denise stared.
“At two?”
“Long meeting.”
Nia opened the refrigerator.
“Did you eat?”
“I’m fifty-seven.”
“Still need calories.”
“There’s chicken.”
“I see it.”
Nia shut the refrigerator without taking anything.
Her mother noticed.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nia.”
She leaned against the counter.
“Chef dumped my soup.”
Denise frowned.
“What soup?”
“The trim broth.”
“The one you made Sunday?”
“New version.”
“Why did he dump it?”
“Because I made it.”
Denise’s face changed.
Nia continued:
“Owner tasted it blind.”
“Liked it.”
“Now he wants me in development.”
Her mother stared.
“That’s good.”
“Maybe.”
“Why maybe?”
Nia placed the notebook on the table.
Denise saw the grease mark.
“What happened to that?”
“Chef.”
Her mother’s fingers stopped.
“Which chef?”
Nia looked toward her.
“Warren Sloan.”
Denise went completely still.
There it was.
The reaction Nia had secretly expected.
“You know him.”
Denise looked away.
“Mom.”
“No.”
“That face says yes.”
Denise stood.
“It’s two in the morning.”
“Dad worked with him.”
Denise’s shoulders tightened.
“Nia.”
“What happened?”
“Go to bed.”
“What happened?”
Her mother turned.