Chapter 2 - The Red Apron on the Floor
The cross-country flight was an endless exercise in self-torment. Up at thirty thousand feet, Theo pulled up Ruby Parker’s employee file on his tablet.
She was twenty-seven years old. Born and raised in South Boston. Hired eighteen months ago. Zero disciplinary infractions. In fact, her file was loaded with handwritten customer compliments praising her warmth, her patience with elderly diners, and her uncanny memory for regulars' orders. Her hourly wage was sixteen dollars and fifty cents. Because Theo’s aggressive corporate cost-cutting measures strictly capped non-salaried staff at thirty-one hours to avoid paying medical benefits, her monthly take-home pay barely touched two thousand dollars.
Two thousand dollars.
Theo had spent more than that on a single bottle of vintage scotch to impress a venture capitalist last week.
Under her emergency contact information, there was a single address: a third-floor walk-up apartment on Dorchester Avenue. No spouse. Listed dependent: Leo Parker, age six.
Theo swallowed a bitter lump in his throat. He thought of his grandfather sitting at Table Seven, a man who had outlived his wife, outlived his old friends, and was now being avoided by his only grandson under the pathetic excuse of being ""too busy."" Walter hadn’t come to Carrington’s to inspect the books or meddle with the kitchen; he had come simply to sit in the room where he had spent his life, hoping for a shred of human warmth. And Ruby Parker, a single mother struggling to make rent on an unlivable wage, had given him the only warmth he received all year.
When the jet finally touched down at Logan International Airport in Boston, it was 5:45 p.m. Freezing rain lashed against the tarmac, turning the runways into slick mirrors of grey sludge. Theo didn't wait for a limousine service. He walked out to the curbside cab stand, jumped into the back of a yellow taxi, and barked the address: ""Carrington’s. Downtown. Step on it.""
The city traffic crawled along the expressway, tail lights bleeding red through the rain-streaked windshield. Theo checked his watch every thirty seconds. He called Walter’s cell phone again. It rang four times before clicking over to the mechanical voicemail greeting Walter had recorded eight years ago.
“Grandpa, it’s Theo,” he spoke into the voicemail, his throat tightening until it hurt to breathe. “Please, pick up. Or call me back the second you hear this. I’m in Boston. I’m heading to the restaurant right now. I know what happened today. I saw everything. I’m so sorry, Grandpa. Please… just answer your phone.”
By the time the cab pulled up in front of Carrington’s, the dinner rush was beginning. The outside of the restaurant was gleaming: polished mahogany trim, warm brass lanterns, and a frosted glass logo designed by a Manhattan branding agency. Through the tall front windows, well-dressed patrons in tailored suits and silk blouses were laughing over flutes of vintage champagne.
Theo shoved through the heavy revolving doors. The warmth of the dining room hit him, carrying the scent of black truffles, seared wagyu beef, and expensive perfume.
At the host stand, the young hostess gasped, nearly dropping her iPad. “Mr. Carrington! We didn't expect you until tomorrow morning for the Vanguard presentation! Let me notify Chef Victor—”
“Don’t touch that phone,” Theo said, his voice dropping an octave.
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He walked straight past her, his heavy wet coat dripping onto the imported Italian marble floor. His eyes locked onto Table Seven. It had already been re-set. Crisp white linen, polished silver cutlery, sparkling crystal goblets. A wealthy couple in their thirties sat there now, browsing the leather-bound wine list, completely oblivious to the tragedy that had unfolded on that very spot five hours earlier.
Theo turned toward the kitchen doors. Just outside the service station, tucked behind an ice machine, a crumpled red staff apron lay on the floor. It was Ruby’s apron. Victor hadn't even bothered to have someone pick it up.
