Free Bananas Foster and a Dead Mobster by A. Gardner

pastry. I'm early, but I want to sketch some concepts for my final buffet without any distractions. Bree has been focusing on school rather than the many things about Jeff that annoy her, and Cole and I are avoiding each other.
    I rushed home from Otto's last night only to find that my paranoia kept me awake until dawn. Every creak, creep, and tap sent my heart soaring. I ran to my window dozens of times and resorted to sleeping with a steak knife in my nightstand. It still didn't help.
    I stop, seeing the one thing I was hoping not to see. The one thing I've been looking for.
    The black Cadillac.
    I gulp and keep walking.
    The morning sunshine beats down on my forehead, but the air is nice and breezy for the time being. The suspicious car sits just down the street from my walk to class. I take deep breaths, counting my steps until I finally reach the right building. I jog inside—chest drumming.
    When I enter my classroom, it all adds up. Chef Otto must have had the same idea as me…sort of. He's sitting at his workspace up front going over his demo for the day. He jerks his head up when he sees me and quickly lets out a sigh of relief. I tighten my grip on my bag and cautiously walk toward my assigned seat.
    "Poppy," he says, surprised. "You're early."
    "So are you."
    "A chef's work is never done," he smugly comments. I sit at my station without laughing.
    "How are you this morning?" I ask. I debate whether or not to mention the car parked outside. I don't know if he's involved in whatever the Bianco family is planning. I don't know if he did the deed and murdered Gino Milani for reasons yet to be uncovered.
    I don't know if he's a mobster himself.
    "Okay, thanks." He clears his throat. "Actually…"
    My eyes go wide, and I clench the closest thing to me that could be used as a weapon. My kit of fondant tools. Otto forces a fake grin like being cheery about it will make things less awkward. It doesn't work. Instead, I'm calculating my chances of survival if he decides to lunge forward and stab me in the torso. I instinctively scoot my stool backward.
    "Yeah?" I respond. My voice quivers slightly.
    "I'm glad you came in early this morning," he says.
    "You are?" I scoot back even more.
    "Yes, I think we should talk about what happened yesterday."
    My mind jumps to the millions of things he could be referring to. His mini panic attack. Me—snooping around the main floor of his Georgian mansion. Keeping Susu overnight and letting her eat too many dog treats.
    "Susu is okay, right? I mean, I didn't give her that many treats. I swear."
    "Susu is fine," he replies. "I'm talking about my minor bout with a bit of anxiety."
    "That's one way to put it," I say quietly—flashbacks of him nervously pacing from window to window surfacing in my brain.
    "I want to apologize for it." He clasps his hands together. "I didn't get much sleep the night before, and I think it was just nerves getting to me. I'm due to start filming the next season of my new reality show when the semester ends."
    A well-rehearsed lie.
    "I see." Liar .
    "Forget those things I said," he insists. "It was all nonsense." Lies. All lies.
    "You're sure about that?" I raise my eyebrows. Part of me is proud of myself for being so bold in the presence of a potential murder suspect, and part of me is terrified.
    "Yes." He nods, letting the fake half-smile fade from his face.
    "You are absolutely sure that no one is following you?"
    His expression changes when I say it out loud. At first he has a vacant look on his face as if he's fighting to hide his true emotions. But his brick wall routine only lasts for so long. After a few seconds of biting his tongue, he finally eyes me suspiciously.
    "Yes," he says while clenching his jaw.
    "One hundred percent positive?" I push him further—something my mom does to me when she knows I'm lying. Eventually I break down, sick of all the questions.
    "Yes."
    "You're certain?" I grip the side of my seat, bracing myself.
    "Poppy," he