Crossing from the basement to the kitchen felt like crossing a border between two centuries.
My heart was still thundering against my ribs. The basement had felt like a secret world where physics didn't apply. But up here, under the flickering fluorescent lights, I had to be the "Lost Chef" again.
I shoved the silk-wrapped Lunar Codex into the back of a deep flour bin, burying it beneath twenty pounds of white powder.
"Act normal," I whispered. "Just a woman paying bills."
Outside, gravel crunched. A heavy vehicle pulled into the lot. It wasn't a local truck; it was a sleek, black SUV. The engine purred like a predatory cat.
The diner door opened. The bell gave a sharp tang.
Three men walked in. Charcoal suits. Polished shoes that looked absurd on my linoleum floor. They looked
