At six in the evening, just before the first restaurant guests start arriving, Eddie stands hunched over the wooden cutting board. His sturdy wrist grips the handle of his favorite knife, and the blade splits two long red peppers in half. Eddie picks up one half and, with a practiced motion and light pressure, removes all the seeds still clinging to it. He sets it face down and takes the other half in hand.

  "Walsh! If you keep dawdling, should I just call Benny to cancel the reservations, huh?"

  Eddie glances at the glass bowls in front of him. All three are filled to the brim. He turns to Cork only to see his grinning face.

  "Just kidding, rookie. Good work, but I want more."

  Cork is a huge man and looks like the typical chef. Eddie has been working for him for a year and has never seen him outside the kitchen. Always dressed in white, always with clean hands, and always with at least one weapon in hand. Weapons for killing dead meat, as he called them. But he’s cheerful and kind, which doesn’t always help him.

  "Any orders?" Eddie asks, just to be sure.

  "Not for you, rookie. You can go smoke a cigarette, but stay close."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  That’s what Eddie was waiting for. He sets the knife aside and wipes his hands on his apron. He steps out through the kitchen’s back door into a dead-end alley with a narrow path where the delivery trucks come through. Next to the warehouse door are two small tables the staff use to smoke and take a break from work. But right now, there’s no one there.

  Eddie first pulls out his phone and calls Maisie. She picks up on the third ring:

  "Make it quick, Eddie. Please," Eddie hears her breathless voice.

  "I got a message from Rex. He wants to talk. Are you okay with..."

  "No, Eddie. Didn’t we agree you’d stop?"

  "He hasn’t said what it’s about yet..."

  "And what do you think he could want from you? He wants me to worry about you again. No, Eddie. Tell him no, please." Eddie no longer hears her panting. She must have stopped somewhere.

  "How are you guys?" He changes the subject.

  "I’m cooking, and your son won’t stop pestering me."

  "He’s your son too, Maisie."

  "Ask me again when you’re the one looking after him someday."

  "I promise I’ll get you both something on my way back."

  "I’ll let you go, Eddie. I really have work to do."

  Eddie pulls out a cigarette and lights it. He takes one drag and tosses it into the small puddle of collected water in front of him. He loves the smell of nicotine itself. He loves that first drag—how it fills his mouth and takes over his whole head.

  But he doesn’t love smoking.