Autumn circled, catching the steam, the sheen of the olive oil, the way the knife slid clean through.
They tasted.
For a moment, no one spoke.
“Oh, my goodness,” exclaimed Naomi. “This is delicious and so simple.”
Mia smiled. Sure, she was proud of her food. But tonight, standing with her friends close, enjoying a dish she made, it felt like more than pride.
It felt like validation.
CHAPTER 34
The kitchenat Mia’s place was quiet when the woman slipped inside. She moved with careful, unhurried steps. Moving too fast had a way of attracting attention, and that led to mistakes.
She’d watched long enough to know Mia’s routine—when the lights went out upstairs, how long it took before the house settled into stillness, how much time she had before anyone noticed anything out of place. Once she was certain Mia was gone, she killed her headlights and parked behind the barn, out of sight.
The father wouldn’t be a problem. He never was. And there was no dog to sound an alarm, no sudden bark to complicate things. Mia had made this easy for her.
Earlier, she’d listened to Emelia Wells’s podcast and learned exactly where Mia would be tonight, smiling for the cameras, putting herself front and center like she belonged there.
She went straight to the counter, eyes skimming the surface. Not for mess. For information. Things people left behind when they thought they were safe.
The kitchen smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and fresh herbs. Clean. Orderly. The kind of place that made people assume competence before asking questions.
Her gaze swept the area by the sink—the landline, a small cluster of ceramic animals, a couple of herb pots on the sill, mail stacked neatly but unopened. On the wall nearby, a few framed certificates from New York. Awards. Accolades. Proof that Mia had brought her reputation with her and assumed it would open doors.
She studied them for a moment longer than necessary. Two clients lost. Maybe three. One charity tasting, one polished menu, and suddenly the calls stopped.
Mia hadn’t stolen them outright. She’d just arrived at the right moment and let people assume they were choosing better.
No one ever questioned who got edged out.
Her gaze caught a slim notebook tucked beside the mail. She opened it just long enough to confirm what she already suspected. A small calendar inside it with names, venues and dates circled in red.
Saturday. Private event. Lakeshore area. Good clients.
She took out her phone and snapped a photo.
Then she closed the calendar and slid it back into place, edges aligned, nothing disturbed. She liked leaving things exactly as she’d found them. It made people doubt themselves later.
This was about timing. About a polite phone call. About sounding regretful and professional. Just believable enough.
She turned toward the door, then paused.
A quick scan of the cabinets revealed more. A supplier list taped inside a cabinet door. Flour. Produce. Seafood. Covered containers of baking staples.
She smiled again.
This wasn’t about breaking things. That was crude. Obvious. Anyone could knock something over or pull a plug.
This was better.
The flour caught her attention. Smiling, she retrieved it from the cabinet and set it on the counter.
She reached for something on the shelf and adjusted the mixture. Not too much but just enough to throw it off. Enough to ruin a recipe without wasting the ingredients.
She stirred slowly, folding it in until it disappeared. No clumps. No trace.
