Chapter Nine Nic
Chapter Nine
Nic
Sara’s at the other end of the long metal prep table from me, chopping onions. Normally, she makes a show of it, but today her knifework is sluggish.
She’s sniffing as she slices, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because of the onions.
The last time I saw Sara cry was… Honestly, I don’t even know.
“Are you okay?” I ask. I’m worried. I’ve been worried since she stepped foot through the door of my parents’ house on Sunday morning, and it’s only gotten worse as the days have passed.
Martin’s sources inside the PD tell him that things do not look good for her; the cops have all but given up looking for other suspects.
If they even tried at all.
Which means she’s in trouble. Massive amounts of trouble. And if things get as bad as I fear they will, my mom’s cousin Barry isn’t going to cut it as her lawyer.
The issue is we can’t afford someone better.
The public defenders here are all fresh out of law school, living at home, working for the government until they can land a gig in the private sector.
They wouldn’t handle my sister’s case any better than Barry.
I spent the last two days hustling my ass off, calling every lawyer’s office in a fifty-mile radius.
The prices I was quoted were astronomical—or at least sounded that way to me.
And no one is willing to cut us a break.
The system on this island—in this country—wasn’t built for people like us. It was built for the people on the other side, who buy sailboats for fun, who belong to the Yacht Club. The rich people.
Sara looks up, glaring at me through glassy eyes. “I’m fine,” she snaps.
The door to the warehouse bangs open, and Esme Peters appears, trailed by Matthew Prado.
Esme’s worked for All Bright Caterers for eight years, ever since we opened our doors.
She and my mom grew up together, have known each other for decades, and she’s been an invaluable asset.
Matthew, on the other hand, only started a month ago.
He’s from somewhere around NYC, and why he moved here of all places is still a mystery to me.
He just showed up one day, résumé in hand, asking for a job.
He’s lucky we even had an opening; we don’t usually hire new people toward the end of the season, but one of our regular caterers moved down to Philly for grad school.
“Sara.” Esme wraps her in a hug. “Are those silly police officers still bugging you?”
Sara pulls back, blinking fast. “I didn’t do it! You know that, right?”
“Of course, honey,” Esme says. She digs into her shoulder bag. “Here, I brought you something.” She presses a small pile of rocks into Sara’s hand. “Black tourmaline. Put a piece in every corner of your home for protection, okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Sara murmurs, distracted by the sounds of the front door opening behind me.
I turn as Adam Kozel appears through it, flanked by an older woman.
I’m caught off guard for a moment—Kozel is the last person I expected to walk through that door—but then I remember: he’s a cop now.
I remember when Martin told me that, I thought it seemed fitting.
Kozel was always the type to follow the rules without question.
To be clear, I don’t mean that as a compliment.
I never had any real reason to hate Kozel back in high school—we didn’t really interact, me being a total loser with one friend and he being the most popular guy in our grade—but I still managed to resent the hell out of him.
And after everything went down with Harriet and me like it did, I decided that was mostly his fault too.
They stop in front of my sister, official in their matching gray, ill-fitting suits.
“Sara Allbright?” the woman says.
“Y-yes?” Sara looks at me like she’s hoping I can protect her from what’s coming next.
“I’m Detective Jones from the Atlantic County Sheriff’s Office. And this is my partner, Detective Kozel…”
“Adam,” Sara finishes. “Yeah. I know Adam.”
“Of course. I should have guessed,” Jones says. “We’re here with regard to the murder of George George—”
Sara interrupts. “I didn’t kill him.” Her voice is steady, but the knife clutched in her fist trembles.
The detectives exchange a look.
“Did you work at Pêne Dormant in New York City?” Kozel asks. I note with satisfaction that he butchers the French.
“Yes?” Sara says. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You were a cook there—”
“I was sous-chef,” Sara snaps. I wince. She needs to pull back on the attitude. These people do not care about fine dining titles.
Kozel pauses. “Right. Sous-chef. You worked there until it closed down, correct?”
“Yes,” Sara says, lips disappearing into a thin white line. “But we didn’t close. We were forced out of business.”
Pêne Dormant. The place where she got those damn knives that killed George, gifted to her by the head chef, Jules.
When she landed that job, I really thought she’d found her place in the world.
But a year later, the building sold and the new owner tripled their rent overnight.
The restaurant shut down, and Jules, whose real name was John, moved back to Iowa and married his high school sweetheart.
Sara lost her fucking mind. I’m pretty sure she and Jules/John were sleeping together, so with the sale of that building, she lost her job, her relationship—all in one fell swoop.
After that, she bounced around. Landed a few gigs working for mid-tier restaurants but was fired from them all. Eventually, the opportunities ran out and she moved back, started working for us.
She hasn’t been the same since.
But I have no idea what any of it has to do with the murder.
“Porcha puttana.” My mom hurries out from her office. “What is going on out here?” She surveys the two plainclothes detectives. “You are the police, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. We are,” Kozel says.
My mom frowns. “Sara, che diavolo sta succedendo?”
“I don’t know!” my sister replies.
“Mrs. Allbright, I can answer that,” Kozel says.
“You speak Italian?” she says, eyebrow jumping.
He smiles smugly, and I roll my eyes. “Solo un po’. We’re here because we have a few more questions for your daughter—”
“She already spoke to the police!”
“Yes, ma’am. But that was before my partner and I were brought over from the mainland. Since then, new information about Sara’s relationship with the deceased has come to light, and we need to ask her about it.”
“Ms. Allbright,” Jones directs to my sister, “you moved back to Logan Island in…” She consults the notebook in her hand, though I’d bet she knows the information by heart. “2024. Is that correct?”
Sara crosses her arms. “Yes. So?”
“Curious timing,” Jones says. “Don’t you think, Detective Kozel?”
“It does seem quite coincidental,” he says with a little shrug.
I’m not usually a fighter, but I seriously want to knock him in the mouth right now.
Sara looks at them. “What’s coincidental?”
Jones sidesteps her question. “Before that, you were living in New York City?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, Mr. George moved back to Logan Island from New York in 2023 after selling his commercial real estate busin—”
Sara interrupts again. “You’re kidding. You’re here questioning me because that guy and I lived in the biggest city in the country at the same time and then both moved to the island? I grew up here! I had a legitimate reason to come back. I’d never even talked to him before that night!”
“We think you did,” Jones says. “In fact, according to several posts on LinkedIn from early 2022, you had quite the vendetta against GG Capital Group. We dug up several heated—borderline threatening—comments left by someone with your name.”
“So what?” Sara’s chin juts like she’s ready for a fight. “Those assholes shut my restaurant down!”
“Exactly,” Jones says.
I tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Those assholes. At GG Capital Group. The real estate investment company George George founded. While living in New York City. At the same time as you.”
And there it is.
“George George founded…” Realization dawns across Sara’s face. “I didn’t know that! You think I knew that? And what, you think I waited three fucking years to get revenge? That’s insane!”
“Murder often is,” Jones says, nodding.
Sara holds up the knife still grasped in her hand, brandishing it in the air. “Jesus Christ!” she shouts. “This has to be a joke. I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill anyone!”
“Sara!” I hiss. What the hell is she doing? Is she trying to get herself arrested?
“Whoa there,” Jones says, hands raised. “Ms. Allbright, I suggest you put that down immediately.”
“Sara,” Kozel says. “That is not a good idea.”
Sara blinks at the knife like she’s not sure how it ended up in her hand. She drops it to the floor with a clatter, and Kozel darts forward, snatching it.
“I wasn’t going to hurt anyone—I just—”
“You need to come with us,” Jones says. “Now. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s up to you.”
“She wasn’t going to hurt you!” Mom cries. She reaches out to Sara, but Jones blocks her with a straight-arm.
“Mrs. Allbright, please don’t make this any more difficult,” Kozel says softly. “We’re just taking Sara in for a chat. Nothing more, nothing less.”
I’m not sure I believe that. The way Jones straight-armed my mom, her tone with Sara—this doesn’t feel like “just a chat.”
It feels like they’ve already made up their minds about charging her.
Sara’s face is pale; she’s cowed in a way I’ve never seen. “I think I need a lawyer, Mom. A real one. Not Barry.”
“Ms. Allbright.” Jones gestures to her. “Shall we?”
Sara gives a tiny nod, and the detectives lead her away.