Page 118 of Lost Then Found
Miller exhales, loud enough for me to hear. “Alright, give me the paperwork.”
I blink up at her. “What?”
She wiggles her fingers at me. “The documents they gave you. The ones that say you’re apparently running a diner that’s been rat-infested overnight.”
I reach for the folder I tossed onto the coffee table earlier and hand it over. Miller takes it and flips through the pages, skimming the text, her mouth tightening.
“What exactly did they say you failed for?” she asks, still scanning.
I lean back against the couch, feeling completely wrung out. “Improper food storage. Temperature violations with the refrigeration units. Evidence of rodent droppings in the dry goods pantry.”
Miller lets out a sharp laugh. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
I press my fingers into my temples, shaking my head. “The Bluebell has never failed a health inspection. Not once. Not since it opened back in the seventies.”
Miller doesn’t look up. “I believe it.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” I say, more to myself than to her. “I was there when the inspector came. I walked her through every storage unit, every fridge, every shelf in the pantry. She told me everything looked perfect. She said it to my face. So what do I do now?” My voice comes out smaller than I mean for it to.
Miller finally glances up, her brows pulling together like she’s weighing her words carefully.
“This has Wendell Tate written all over it,” she says.
My stomach turns. I knew it. But still, hearing it out loud makes it feel real in a way I wasn’t ready for.
I swallow hard. “But how? How was he able to do this?”
Miller purses her lips, flipping back to the first page of the report. “If I had to guess? He found a way to get the original report tossed and replaced with this one. Could’ve been anything—someone in his pocket at the health department, a forged document, hell, maybe he paid off the inspector to suddenly ‘remember’ things differently.” She shrugs. “Either way, he wanted you shut down, and now you are.”
I exhale slowly, trying to keep my hands from shaking.
“That’s illegal,” I say, but the words feel thin, useless.
Miller tilts her head. “Yeah. And? It’s Wendell.”
Right. Like Wendell Tate gives a shit about playing fair.
I push off the couch and start pacing, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack through my ribs. “So what do I do, Miller? Because it’s not like I can march into his office and demand that he undoes it.”
Miller watches me for a beat, then sighs, setting the papers aside.
“You appeal the report, obviously,” she says. “But if you really want to fix this? You find a way to take Wendell down before he takes you down first.”
“How?” My voice comes out tight, raw, edged in frustration. “I have no proof. No paper trail. Whoever he’s got working for him sure as hell isn’t gonna rat him out, not when he’s probably paying them more than their conscience is worth.”
Miller hums, slow and considering, then grins. The kind of grin that usually means someone’s about to get their ass handed to them.
“Good thing you’ve got a best friend who can be a scary bitch when she needs to be.”
“Miller—”
She pushes up from the couch, grabbing her purse from the coffee table like she’s already made up her mind.
I cross my arms. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you figure this out.” She slings the bag over her shoulder, checks her phone. “And in the meantime, you’re gonna stop worrying about it.”
I let out a sharp laugh, hands flying to my hips. “Oh, yeah. Sure. I’ll just kick back and relax while my life collapses. Maybe take up crocheting while I’m at it.”
