Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 0340

I decide to stop at my usual local cafe for a cup of coffee, hoping that it will help calm my frayed nerves. But as I step inside, I'm greeted by a familiar sight on the cafe's television screen.

A news channel is broadcasting a report about the Alpha gathering disaster, and my face is front and center. The headline reads,"Caterer Abby Under Fire for Alpha Party Food Poisoning.”

I feel the weight of the world crashing down on me as I order a coffee to go. The barista eyes me sympathetically, but I can’t bear to stay in the cafe a moment longer. I grab my coffee and make a hasty exit, my heart pounding with the knowledge that, no matter how hard I try, people just hate me now.

Whatever happened to “innocent until proven guilty?

Finally, I arrive home after what feels like an eternity, and the solitude of my apartment offers some relief from the relentless scrutiny of the outside world. I slump into a chair and bury my face in my hands, trying to block out the hurtful words and accusations that still echo in my mind.

But my moment of solitude is short-lived as my phone rings, the shrill sound slicing through the air. I glance at the caller ID, and it's an unknown number. My first instinct is to let it go to voicemail, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I answer.

"Hello?" I say cautiously.

“Is this Chef Abby, the caterer for the Alpha gathering?” a female voice on the other end asks.

I swallow hard, my throat tight with anxiety. “Yes, this is Abby. Who's calling?”

“Hello,” the woman says. “My name is Patricia Koehler. I'm a journalist from the Daily News. Do you have a moment?”

As she speaks, I can feel my throat clench. Mr. Thompson warned me that this would happen. And he was crystal clear when he told me that Icannotdo any interviews. Considering that I'm already in deep enough trouble as it is, I know it's best to listen to his advice, no matter how badly I want to attempt to make people see the light on my own.

I take a moment to gather my thoughts, and then I respond with a heavy sigh, “I'm sorry, but I cannot comment at this time.”

The journalist pauses before clearing her throat. “Are you sure? I only need a few minutes—"

“I'm sorry, but I can't comment,” I repeat. “Have a nice day.”

The journalist continues to try to convince me, but I ignore her. I hang up without another word, then toss my phone down on the opposite end of the couch with a sigh.

All at once, another wave of anguish breaks through the numbness, a silent sob quaking my body. I don't understand how this happened, not one bit; and I'm almost certain that this was some form of sabotage. After all, it had to be.

My mind flickers back to all of the incidents over the past few months: the fire, the cook-off, the cut wires, the burst pipe, the first food poisoning incident, the stranger lurking around my apartment building... and now this?

None of it makes any sense.

And that's why, as I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand, a new sense of determination begins to settle in my chest. There's no knowing what will come back on those samples, so that's not something I can hedge my bets on. No, just as always, I need to handle this myself if I want people to see the truth.

So I need to do some investigating of my own.

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