The victory over Silas felt good for exactly one hour.
But as the sun dipped behind the jagged spine of the North Bend, the adrenaline bled away. The Silver Spoon was quiet now. The only sound was the rhythmic thrum-hiss of the ancient refrigerator and the wind howling outside like a lonely voice.
I sat at the counter, head in my hands. The splintered wood where Silas had slammed his palm was a jagged reminder.
In Chicago, a bad review could kill a restaurant. Here, a bad mood could kill a chef.
"I need to know what I’m standing on, Leo," I whispered.
The baby was fast asleep in his portable crib behind the counter. I grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight and a set of rusted keys I’d found in the manager’s office.
It was time to see what lay beneath the Silver Spoon.
The Descent
