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It’s bubbling up. Hissing at me. I definitely don’t want to drop into that.

Glancing up instead, I note my wrists are tied together, and a metal hook clasped to them is the only thing preventing me from falling below.

Extended like this, there is definitive pain in my shoulders, but I choose to focus on my surroundings instead.

This building is well lit, and past the vats of mystery liquid is an expansive glass wall, on the other side are tables filled with…

Pills? Drugs?

I squint my eyes attempting to discern exactly what it is. If anyone is here.

But it appears this place was emptied.

There are chairs knocked back and no signs of anyone still here.

Footsteps behind me cause me to spin my head.

“You?”

Staring down, I take in my kidnapper.

The man who broke into my foster home years ago, who aimed a gun at me and managed to shoot himself.

It was the last “accident” before my aunt found me.

“You look so much like your mother now.” He steps over a few metal chains in order to stand in front of me, reaching for a panel.

He presses a button, and I lower an inch closer to the decidedly scary liquid below.

“You knew my mother?” It is in times like this that I appreciate my desensitization.

It’s also why I excel in the kitchen.

My ability to exist and succeed under pressure. To push all other fears and worries aside.

To accept death as a part of my day-to-day life. Both the possibility of my own and others.

The man before me stares unwaveringly at my face. His caramel hair is streaked in gray, his seaweed eyes swirl in rage. He wears a blackberry satin suit, complete with gold cuffs that reflect from the fluorescent bulbs above.

“Of course I did. I’m Romaine Aldente after all,” he sneers, his lip peeling back to reveal his teeth.

What does being an Aldente have to do with my mother?

“An Aldente? Did you know Chard? Look, I’m sorry about that. It was an accident, just my bad luck,” I word-vomit at him.

Is that why I’m here? Did I kill someone he loves?

He removes his hand from the panel, keeping my gaze. He cocks his head in confusion. “Chard? How do you…” His brows raise in shock. “Julienne died from cinnamon. Scotch said there were traces of cinnamon in the remaining pieces of the crockpot…Cinnamon.”

He bends over, his hands landing on his pants.

He’s laughing. Wheezing?

Beanie growls while attempting to lunge at him, but she’s tiny, and the phone charger holds tight, keeping her attached to the beam.

“You were the one that was hired? The one who took care of all my problems?” He raises. “It almost makes me want to keep you alive. But unfortunately, I can’t leave any loose ends.”

“Loose ends?” I ask carefully. “A Barley? My name is Cinnamon Jones.”