Chapter Eight

The kitchen was on fire.

Or at least, it had been.

The acrid scent of smoke lingered in the kitchen despite the open windows and the industrial fan sucking up as much of it as possible. Luckily, the scent had remained contained and wasn't frightening the guests.

The chicken however, was very frightening.

“I'm so sorry Ms. Page- the chicken flambé, it wasn't supposed to do that!” The poor caterer looked to be about two seconds away from bursting into tears. This was probably one of the biggest events on the island, and definitely not how she had planned on making an impression on our guests. “I've done this a thousand times and-”

“Are you okay?” I cut her off, putting my hands on her shoulders. “Are you or any of your staff hurt?”

“I'm okay, the staff is okay,” she sniffled, not meeting my eyes. I could smell the scent of burnt hair lingering around her, and upon closer inspection noticed her eyebrows were singed. A single tear rolled down her flushed cheeks. “But the dinner isn't.”

I