Kelly reappeared with a fresh cup of coffee and set it down without comment, which I appreciated more than I had words for.
"Thanks," I said.
"Mm." She looked at the tray. "Almost out of arancini."
"I know. I'll run to the van."
"I'll watch the table."
I went out through the side door into the parking lot. The evening air was cool, and the noise from inside dropped to a low, pleasant hum through the walls. I stood with my hand on the van door and did not look at my phone.
I had a good business. I had good people. The collective was working, and tonight was proof of it. I had my family. I had a system that had not failed me yet.
I retrieved the container and went back inside.
By the time Kelly helped me load the van at eight, the room had thinned and the team were packing up in that easy, practiced way we had now. People who'd worked alongside each other long enough to know who needed help and who didn't.
"Good night," Kelly said. She squeezed my arm, which she only did when she had something to say and had decided not to say it.
"Good night."
I drove home the long way. Not because I meant to, but because the short way went past Sofia's house, and I wasn't doing that. I was fine, not fragile, and the distinction mattered. But I wasn't doing that.
I let myself into the apartment, set my keys on the hook, and stood in the small kitchen.
It had been a good event. Two bookings to add to the system. Samples gone. The collective had shown well.
I was going to make tea, set my alarm for five, get eight hours, because tomorrow's prep list started at five-thirty and I hadn't missed a morning yet.
I filled the kettle.
On the corkboard above the table, the quarterly schedule had three new client names penciled into next month. The cross-stitch Holly had made was still where it had always been. BLESS THIS MESS in cheerful red, a joke from a year ago that was still the right thing to be looking at.
The spot where the photo had been was still there. I hadn't filled it yet. I just hadn't gotten around to it.
The kettle boiled. I made the tea.
I had both hands around the mug when someone knocked at my door.
Nine-forty on a Friday night. I checked the peephole out of habit and found Kelly on the step, still in the clothes she'd worn to the showcase, tablet held against her chest the way other people held clipboards.
The arm squeeze. Of course.
I opened the door. "You had something to say tonight."
"I did." She stepped in and shook her head at the tea I hadn't offered yet. "I didn't want to bring it up at the showcase. You'd earned the night."
"And now I've had it. So."
She set the tablet on the table and turned it toward me.
The first document was a complaint filed with the Health Department. The second was a complaint filed with the Business Licensing Board. Both against Coogan's Catering. Both filed this week. I read them the way I'd learned to read incident reports. Shape first, then detail.
The detail was the problem. Dates, named events, specific allegations dressed in the correct regulatory language. Whoever had written this had taken their time.
"These aren't drive-by complaints," Kelly said. "Someone built them."
"Elevate."
