The words pressed into her harder than the rain.
Kyla swallowed, anger rising fast to cover everything else.“You’re a damn idiot, Brooks.”
He blinked once, slow, rain tracking down his face into his beard.For a brief second she thought he might say something else, might shift, might meet her halfway.Instead, he shook his head again and turned.
He walked away without hesitation.
His back stayed broad and steady as he moved through the rain, shoulders set, his shape pulling out of reach with each step until the darkness took him completely.
Kyla did not move.
The envelope sagged further in her hand, nearly folding in on itself.Water soaked through her clothes, down into her boots, into her skin.She looked down at the smeared ink, then lifted her gaze toward the low sky.
That had been her last play.
The rain answered with the same steady force it had held from the start.
Two days later, Kyla stood at the prep table in Lola’s kitchen and worked through onions with steady, controlled strokes.The first cut burned her eyes.The second burned worse.By the third, the difference stopped mattering.Piles built in front of her, each one pushed aside as she reached for the next.
Her phone lay face-down beside the notebook.She did not turn it over.
The faucet ran in the background while she rinsed and reset.Carrots followed.Then celery.Then more onions.Her shoulders tightened with repetition, muscles working past fatigue into habit.Each time she paused, even for a breath, her attention pulled toward the phone before she forced it back to the work in front of her.
Nothing lit up.
She wiped her cheek with her sleeve and kept going.The burn scar along her wrist caught her eye when she shifted her grip.She pressed her thumb against it once, then picked up the knife again.
Work stayed easier than anything else.
By night, the kitchen filled with labeled containers stacked in clean rows.Salt worked into the small cuts along her fingers, sharp and persistent.She leaned over the sink and scrubbed her forearms, watching the water run pink before it cleared.
Her reflection in the glass above the sink looked drawn tight.Hair slipped loose from its knot.Her mouth held a straight line.Her eyes stayed sharp.
She shut the water off and dried her hands.She did not reach for the phone.
* * *
Day three stretchedlonger than it should have.Kyla moved through prep lists, orders, and deliveries with the same steady focus she used when everything mattered and nothing could slip.Her voice cut through the kitchen when it needed to.When it did not, she let silence do the work.Her hands never stopped moving.
No one saw anything break.No one heard her voice change.
By the time midnight came, the last box was sealed, the lights were off, and the kitchen stood clean in a way that did nothing to ease what sat underneath.
The next day, dusk settled over the back lot, turning the gravel dark with moisture and shadow.Kyla dragged the last cooler toward the trailer, arms trembling from the effort.The plastic handle bit into her palm.She adjusted her grip and kept moving.
Jonah’s footsteps sounded behind her.“Chef?”
She did not turn.“Walk-in.Second shelf.Take what you need.”
He hesitated long enough for her to notice.Then he spoke too quickly.“Good thing we’ve got enough.Don’t need another mess with the bank calling the note after the rodeo—”
He stopped.Too late.
Kyla’s hands locked on the cooler handle.The plastic creaked under the pressure.
Tomorrow.Not later.Not distant.Tomorrow.
She set the cooler down with care that cost her more than dropping it would have.“Thanks for telling me.”
