Chapter 2
The transition from the brilliant ballroom to the kitchen was jarring. Stainless steel prep tables gleamed under harsh fluorescent tubes, and the hum of massive refrigeration units replaced the faint sound of string instruments. Julian stood just inside the threshold, letting the heavy white doors swing shut behind him, cutting off the party's murmur. Clara followed closely, her high heels clicking softly on the quarry tile floor. She reached out, her fingers brushing his sleeve, trying to anchor him in the moment. "Julian, really, it's fine," she murmured again, her voice smooth, almost rehearsed. He pulled his arm away, not harshly, but with a deliberate firmness that made her drop her hand. The kitchen smelled faintly of bleach and old grease, entirely devoid of the catered hors d'oeuvres served outside. It was a space meant for labor, not for guests, and certainly not for an old man who had spent forty years working with his hands in a machine shop. Julian walked past a row of silent convection ovens, his gaze sweeping the shadowy corners of the back prep area. The high-end appliances loomed like silver monoliths, indifferent to his search. He felt the cold air from the walk-in cooler draft across the back of his neck, sharpening his senses. Something was wrong here. Clara’s insistence that everything was fine only amplified the alarm bells ringing in his chest. He turned down the narrow aisle between the dishwashing station and the pantry, his eyes straining against the dim, flickering overhead light.
