Chef Cho snorted, the sound sharp and dismissive. "And I'm Julia Child." She began slicing the onion into perfect, translucent half-moons, each cut precise and measured. "Table seven's orderwill be up in two minutes. You might want to fix your face before you deliver it."
Ann moved to the sink, splashing cold water on her wrists the way her mother had taught her to do when anxiety threatened to overwhelm her. The kitchen's familiar sounds surrounded her—the sizzle of the grill, the rhythmic chopping of Chef Cho's knife, the low hum of the industrial dishwasher. Normally, these sounds grounded her, but tonight they seemed distant, as if she were hearing them through water.
"It's that police officer," Ann said suddenly, the words escaping before she could reconsider. "Marcus Hale."
Chef Cho's knife paused mid-slice, hovering above the cutting board for a beat before resuming its work. "The one who sits in your section. Punctual as a German train."
Ann nodded, surprised that Chef Cho had noticed from her position in the kitchen. "Yes."
"What about him?" Chef Cho's tone remained neutral, but something in her posture had shifted, a subtle tensing that Ann might not have noticed if she hadn't worked with the woman for three years.
"He's…" Ann hesitated, still struggling to give voice to her suspicions despite the conversation with Lena. "I think he might be following me. Outside the restaurant, I mean."
The knife stilled entirely this time. Chef Cho set it down deliberately, the blade parallel to the edge of the cutting board, and wiped her hands on her apron. For the first time that evening—perhaps for the first time ever—she gave Ann her complete attention.
"Tell me," she said simply.
Ann found herself recounting the story again—the traffic stop, the precise timing of his visits, the patrol cars that seemed to shadow her movements. As she spoke, Chef Cho's expression remained impassive, but her eyes grew harder, more focused, like polished stones.
Chef Cho was silent for a long moment, her gaze seemingly fixed on the half-prepared vegetables before her. When she finally spoke, her voice carried an edge Ann had never heard before.
"Lena is right. Trust your instincts," she said. "Especially around men in positions of authority."
Ann blinked, surprised by the personal tone from the typically reserved chef. "I thought maybe I was being paranoid."
"That's what they want you to think." Chef Cho picked up her knife again but didn't immediately resume chopping. Instead, she turned it slightly, examining the blade as if seeing something reflected there. "My ex-husband was a police sergeant in San Francisco. Nineteen years ago now."
Ann remained silent, sensing that interrupting would cause Chef Cho to retreat into her professional shell.
"When I filed for divorce, he didn't take it well." Chef Cho's voice remained even, matter-of-fact, as if discussing a recipe rather than a personal trauma. “Suddenly, patrol cars were driving past the restaurant where I worked. Officers I'd never met would come in, sit at the bar, and watch me while they nursed a single drink."
The knife moved again, resuming its rhythmic work on the onions. Chop. Chop. Chop. The sound punctuated her words like a metronome.
"When I confronted him, he always had an excuse. He was 'just checking on me' or 'happened to be in the neighborhood.'" Chef Cho's mouth tightened. "Then he started showing up at my apartment. At the grocery store. At my sister's house, when I visited her."
Ann leaned against the counter, her legs suddenly feeling too weak to support her weight. Each detail of Chef Cho's story aligned with her own experience, each parallel reinforcing the cold fear that had taken root in her chest.
"How did it end?" she asked, dreading the answer yet needing to hear it.
"I documented everything. Dates, times, places, witnesses." Chef Cho's knife continued its steady rhythm, the blade glinting under the harsh kitchen lights. "I went to his superior officer with my evidence. Then to that officer's superior when nothing happened. Then to the police commissioner. Then to a lawyer."
Ann's breathing had become shallow again, her chest tight. "Did it work?"
"Eventually." Chef Cho swept the chopped onions into a waiting pan, the sizzle and aroma filling the immediate area. "But patterns don't lie, Ann. When someone shows you who they are through consistent behavior, believe them the first time."
The kitchen's sounds seemed to grow louder around them—the scrape of spatulas, the clatter of plates, the hiss of steam. The ordinary cacophony of restaurant work continued while Ann's world tilted on its axis, reality reshaping itself around the confirmation that her fears were justified.
"I thought I was losing my mind," Ann admitted, her voice small against the kitchen's backdrop. "Seeing connections that weren't there."
"You're not losing your mind." Chef Cho's gaze was steady, unwavering. "You're paying attention. There's a difference."
She turned back to the grill, flipping a piece of fish with practiced ease. The conversation seemed to be over, Chef Cho retreated into her professional persona. But then she reached for a plate, arranged the fish on a bed of vegetables with artistic precision, and slid it toward Ann.
"Table seven," she said, nodding toward the swinging door. Then, her voice dropping slightly, she added, "And Ann? Document everything. Dates, times, places. It matters."
Ann picked up the plate, her hand steadier now despite the fear coursing through her. As she pushed through the swinging door back into the dining room, her eyes automatically scanned for threats—checking the entrance, the windows, the shadows between tables. The weight of Marcus's invisible surveillance pressed down on her, but alongside it grew something new—a seed of determination, small but stubborn.
She had already been writing things down, but from now on, she would document everything. She would build her case. She would trust her instincts.
