Teresa rolled her eyes and stepped back from the bulletin board. “It’s not you using my profile that bugs me. It’s just that you always seem to watch the weirdest crap, like Russian grandma cooking shows and elephant documentaries. It’s messing with my recommendations.”
“Babushkashave a calming effect on me when they bake, and it doesn’t hurt to stay informed about nature.” I followed her toward one of the kitchen islands filled with supplies. “Elephants are majestic creatures. Did you know their trunks can typically hold over two gallons of water?”
I wasn’t about to admit that the real reason elephant documentaries showed up on her profile was because I put them on for Mr. Elephant in case he got bored while I was away.
Teresa shook her head and pointed to the tub of silverware sitting on the island. She grabbed a napkin before tucking the shiny fork and friends inside and rolling it up into a snug pouch like she’d been born doing it. “Just start rolling, Emma.”
I, on the other hand, found my silverware-rolling skills on par with my van-unloading ones.
Nonexistent.
But I hunkered down, pretending I was rolling burritos as we made our way through the tub. Catering typically involved an hour of prep for both cooking and setup. Teresa and I quickly learned to stay far away from the chopping station.
Other college students bustled around our island, preparing the food and buffet trays as I focused on rolling.
“Listen, if Trent was right about Mr. Everton’s son being here, then I need to warn you. He’s a bit of a handful,” Teresa said, but I could only blink back at her. How much trouble could one kid be with so many adults around? “He used to help out here, but then he got in with the wrong crowd and he and the boss had quite the falling out. Touchy subject.”
“That sucks,” I said, unsure how invested I was expected to be in this story. It sounded like Mr. Everton’s son was older than I’d expected, though, if he’d been helping them cater.
“It does, but it’s not all bad.” She finished another roll and took the one I was fumbling with. “We don’t need to use the special locks on the van to stop him from pilfering desserts anymore.”
I frowned. The van used to be locked?
“From what I heard, our boss actually kicked him out. I blame those friends of his,” Teresa said as I grabbed another napkin and some silverware. “And Mr. Everton must feel awful. If someone I loved fell in with the wrong crowd, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“Same,” I offered sympathetically. This was turning into some juicy gossip. “But what kind of crowd did he get involved in?”
“Drugs. Crime. That kind of stuff.” She tossed another rolled napkin into the pile. I played with one of the napkin corners, riveted by the turn this story was taking. It bore a striking resemblance to one of the crime shows we’d seen. A model son turned cocaine dealer. “Totally unexpected. Finn always seemed like a good guy to me.”
“Finn?” I asked in reflex as the napkin fell from my grip and landed on the counter. A weight settled in my stomach. Mr. Everton caught me talking to Finn before, and he’d warned me about the boy as if he knew him personally.
Well, maybe Teresa meant a different Finn…
Shut up,Emma.
“Yeah, Finn. Not sure what happened, but over the summer he got busted for a B&E, and Mr. Everton posted bail before dragging him out of the jail cell by his ear.” Teresa looked around the room as if she expected Finn to pop out from behind the refrigerators. “I haven’t seen him since.”
I made a noncommittal sound, crossing both arms as I tried to reconcile the playful magician I’d met with a ruthless criminal.
They didn’t mix well.
“It’s whatever.” Teresa brushed the subject off, grabbing the bin now half-filled with rolled napkins. “Just don’t bring it up in front of the boss, or he’ll get pissy and take it out on everyone here. Come on, we should take these out to the tables.”
I dutifully followed her through the maze of hallways, frowning down at the hardwood floors as my brain worked itself into a scramble.
“Teresa, just to make sure—so I can keep an eye out and be vigilant, of course—what does Finn look like?” I asked, trying to sound casual as I glanced up at her.
“You won’t need to worry about him coming inside. Mr. Everton wouldn’t allow it,” she said as we rounded the corner into a beautiful parlor. “But he’s got kind of messy reddish-brown hair, a nice face, and a big smile. Most girls would probably find him handsome.”
Okay, no need to panic. There were probably plenty of Finns out there that had chestnut hair and were handsome and not related to Mr. Everton.
“You know, he actually had a sweets obsession rivaling yours,” Teresa said as we turned down another hallway. “Like I said, Mr. Everton had to keep the van locked at all times or desserts would go missing. Hell, evenwiththe locks, some went missing.”
I winced.
Definitely the same Finn.
* * *
