The heavy steel service door at Sterling and Sage opens onto a grim, brick-lined alleyway off Broadway. I keyed myself in at 2:37 AM.
The stainless-steel service pass was immaculate. The overhead infrared heat lamps had been powered down for hours. The solitary illumination emanated from a pendant light suspended over my custom walnut butcher block—a massive, three-inch-thick slab I oiled religiously twice a month. It was the altar where I had executed every mise en place for the last four years.
Evelyn Vance was already there. She was fifty-eight, a mathematical savant, and she had served as my lead accountant since our opening week. She was methodically wiping down a pristine section of prep counter with a damp bar towel—a nervous tic she employed whenever she lingered late without a scheduled reason.
“Kettle is hot,” she said quietly.
I brewed two cups of Earl Gray. I sat on a steel prep stool.
My grandmother had left me her $40,000 inheritance alongside a hand-typed, notarized trust letter. The document contained one paragraph dictating the distribution of her jewelry, one paragraph regarding my mother’s erratic behavior, and a final paragraph regarding business.
