Page 26 of Shark’s Edge

“He was admitted for symptoms concurrent with food poisoning,” Bourne said. “Likely because of something he ingested yesterday.”

“Food poi—” I cut myself off with a shocked cough. I couldn’t even finish the phrase. It was every caterer’s worst nightmare—and now I was living it.

Symptoms. Illness. Yesterday.

“What are you saying?” Sean asked, face twisted in bewilderment. “He got sick from something he ate?”

“That’s exactly what he’s saying,” Rio said. “And judging from all this”—she waved a frustrated hand toward the officers—“he’s also saying our food was the culprit.”

“Only alleging.” Silva actually spoke up then, though his mellow mediator smile had vanished. “Nobody’s being accused of anything.”

“Not yet,” Rio mumbled.

“Babe.” Another mental thank-you to Sean as he cinched his wife to his side, speaking directly into her ear. “Dial it down, beautiful. You’re making things harder for Abbi right now.”

But while I was grateful for my brother’s intervention, his action didn’t deter Bourne from funneling an intense stare at Rio. “You said our food? What’s that all about?”

“It’s about nothing. This is my sister-in-law, Rio Gibson, and she’s an employee of Abstract Catering.”

Bourne pulled out a small pad and started jotting everything I relayed. In terse clips, he added, “An employee with clear-cut views regarding Mr. Shark.”

“An employee,” I said, “who performs her job according to my strict standards of hygiene and food preparation.”

Rio squirmed again, clearly wanting to add to that, but Sean checked her. I shot him a new look of gratitude.

“Mr. Shark states that his schedule was so packed yesterday, he only had time to eat lunch,” Bourne went on. “And that the meal was hand-delivered to his office from Abstract Catering.”

I swallowed hard again, despite how it felt like every river stone in their garden was in my throat. “I was the one who delivered Mr. Shark’s sandwich,” I said. “It was in a sealed container before I brought it into his office, but he enjoys his meals on actual china, so I set it up for him. He watched me the entire time.”

“Fair enough,” Silva said. “And where was the container before you delivered it into his office?”

“On my cart, where I keep all the preordered meals for each building.”

“And you’re with that cart at all times?” Bourne pressed. “It stays at your side?”

I tottered my head back and forth. “Yes and no. I mean, I don’t abandon it or anything.”

“Not even to use the ladies’ room?”

“If that’s necessary, I do it in the building lobby before loading the cart. Once I’m up on delivery floors, I only leave the cart for snips at a time.” Which was technically already a lie—since my snip behind Shark’s closed doors was more than that. Holy crap, so much more. Snips were what someone did to stray threads. Being with him had been like tangling in a whole bolt of fabric. Probably velvet. Soft on one side, rough and ruthless on the other.

I ordered myself to remember that—ruthless. Because it had led to this. Being scrutinized under the late-morning sun, which felt more and more like the heat lamp in an interrogation room. Making me wonder if this weekend was going to end with my ass behind bars, awaiting arraignment for poisoning LA’s most prominent businessman.

“Snips.” I wasn’t sure if the quirk of Bourne’s lips should make me hopeful or more nervous. “Since you set up Mr. Shark’s meal for him, did that qualify as a snip too?”

“No.” I shored up my posture. “It was longer than a snip. But I already had his lunch with me when I entered his office. Additionally, Mr. Shark’s floor is always my first delivery for that building.”

This time, Silva was the one to tilt his head in curiosity. “Isn’t he in the penthouse?”

“From the top down,” Rio cut in. “That’s how we usually work it. Start at the top floor and work our way back down and then right out to the van.”

Silva nodded. “Yeah, that makes perfect sense. The VIPs first.” His shrug gave away how thoroughly he disagreed with such policies, but he wasn’t the alpha dog on this interrogation—or whatever the hell it was.

Bourne was still clearly zeroed in on one prerogative. “Ms. Gibson, from the time you loaded your cart to the time you took Mr. Shark’s lunch off of it, that conveyance wasn’t out of your sight for even—what? How long would you say? Five minutes?”

I looked away, focusing my study on the modern statue occupying the yard across the street. I’d never been able to tell if it was an elegant pelican or a bizarre mermaid. Par for the course today, since the entire world seemed to be based solely on perception.

“Not even that,” I replied. “Before I arrived at Mr. Shark’s office, there were only a handful of other orders for the floor, and all of them approached me for their food.”