Page 32 of The Devil She Knows
“In addition to presenting our contestants with a secret ingredient, we like to really test their mettle in theinfernobyrequiring each round that they use either a particular cooking technique or kitchen gadget. Our chefs were required to blanch a portion of their appetizers, and the entrée round necessitated the use of a zesting machine. Without further ado, let’s find out what’s in store for our contestants during our third and final round!”
Daphne whipped the lid off the cloche, revealing a chocolate sheet cake and, beside it, a book of matches.
“What we have here,” she said, “is a decadent devil’s food cake, and to really put the prowess of our contenders to the test, their dish must be, in some way, kissed by fire.”
Charbroiling, flambéing, and brûléeing sprang to mind as the obvious options for cooking with an open flame.
“Each of our three esteemed judges will award our contestants up to forty points for taste, fifteen each for plating, creativity, integration of the secret ingredient, and implementation of the technique or gadget, for a possible one hundred points. The chef with the highest total score will be named the winner of tonight’s show. As always, you have unfettered access to both the pantry and cold storage, which are fully stocked with a wide variety of ingredients. Your stations have gadgets and gizmos aplenty, and if at any point you can’t find something, look harder.”
Sam rocked back on her heels, peering around Daphne, trying to meet Hannah’s eye. When that didn’t work, Hannah too focused on Daphne as she rattled off a few final reminders that Sam probably should’ve been paying attention to but couldn’t have cared less about when her entire reason for being here stood only a few feet away, Sam sneaked a glance at Hannah’s left hand.
Her ring finger was naked.
Sam frowned. Were they not engaged? Or had Hannah taken the ring off for the competition? Were they together in this reality her wish had spawned? Did Hannah even know her? If Hannah would just look at her, Sam was sure she’d know, sure she’d be able to read it in her eyes.
As if someonefarmore benevolent than Daphne had decided to grant Sam’s silent wish, Hannah turned, lips fixed in a smile and—
Sam’s shoulders sagged.
There wasn’t even a flicker of recognition in Hannah’s eyes.
Well, fuck.
What was she supposed to do now? Compete against Hannah in this farce of a competition? To what end? A trophy? A chance to win ten thousand dollars? Bragging rights?
The only thing Sam cared about winning was Hannah’s heart; how was winning, or losing, this competition going to get her any closer to accomplishing that? How would any of this help her?
“Chef Cooper, Chef Liu.” Daphne turned, looking first at Sam and then at Hannah. Sam gave Daphne her bestif looks could killglare, infusing it with as muchgo fuck yourselfenergy as she could. A silent promise that if Daphne had shipped Sam up another shit creek without a paddle, Sam was going to find a way, come hell or high water, to end her. “You have thirty minutes to prepare, plate, and present your desserts to the judges.” She gestured to the giant digital stop clock suspended from the ceiling above the judges’ table atthe front of the arena, a red number 30 glowing overhead. “Your time starts … now! Allez impressionner!”
The clock instantly flipped to 00:29:59.
Go impress, Daphne had said. Go impress whom? And for that matter,where?
She looked to Hannah and—
Hannah had already taken off, hopping down from the elevated dais where she’d stood and zipping off toward the back of the arena, where a sign readingPANTRYhung above several rows of metal store racks. Slightly to the left of the pantry, another sign hung over a doorway.REFRIGERATOR, it read.
At least the place was clearly labeled and, courtesy of the show’s format, which gave the audience watching at home a primer, Sam had a leg up that she hadn’t had with her last wish. She still didn’t know why she was here, why Daphne had chosen to manufacture a whole cooking competitionspecifically, when she could have just as easily thwarted Sam’s wish some other way, more easily, even. But at least Sam wasn’t totally in the dark the way she’d been talking to Coco and Melissa and those police detectives.
Sam knew cooking and she knew culinary competition television.
“Chef Cooper?” Daphne’s brow rose expectantly. “The clock is ticking. Allons-y!”
Sam fisted her hands at her sides, restraining the urge to flip Daphne the bird, and stepped off the dais. To her left was a small but well-appointed kitchen that she made her way over to for a closer look.
What the station lacked in size it made up for with state-of-the-art appliances from high-end brands like Sub-Zero and Wolf. The kitchen boasted a multiunit range with a wall rail for some of those gadgets and gizmos Daphne had mentioned, a double-oven range, a glass-front refrigerator and matching freezer, even an induction cooktop set into the prep counter. Atop a small island sat an ice-cream maker and an anti-griddle, a bevy of other lesser-known appliances tucked neatly away on a shelf beneath.
Sam needed a game plan. The way she saw it, she had three options. She could refuse to compete. She could find the exit and walk out of this studio or wherever the hell she was and find her way back to more familiar surroundings. Her apartment, maybe, or Glut. She could google herself and Hannah and find her on social media, maybe. Shoot her a DM and go from there. But what would Hannah think of her withdrawing from the competition? What if she walked out the door and something happened, and her path never intersected with Hannah’s again?
Hands braced on the butcher-block countertop, Sam stared at the chocolate sheet cake she was meant to transform.
She could stay. She could stay and compete, and she could treat this seriously. Really give the competition her all. Win, or at the very least try. Or she could half-ass it.
Hannah wasn’t much of a cook. At least the Hannah Sam knew, the Hannah who knew Sam, wasn’t. She preferred eating out to eating at home, and when they did stay in, Hannah wanted to order either salads from Sweetgreen or one of those TikTok-viral luxe sushi boxes from Bondi, or she was happy to let Sam handle the cooking. Which was fine. Great,even. Sure, the last thing some chefs wanted to do when they got home was cook yet another meal, but Sam genuinely didn’t mind. She loved cooking. And cooking in the comfort of her own kitchen was a world apart from cooking in a high-pressure, fast-paced restaurant environment like Glut, where even the tiniest mistakes were tantamount to total failure.
Even in this altered reality where Sam was the executive chef of Glut and she and Hannah didn’t know each other, before Daphne had implied as much with her introduction, Sam would’ve been willing to bet Hannah was no Iron Chef.
Of course, Hannah could always take her by surprise, turn out to be some sort of dark horse and take the win, but if she didn’t? Even the best sports didn’t like to lose. No one did. Well, depending on the game, Sam didn’t mind. Like when she played Clue or Boggle with her nieces and nephews. Sometimes she’d throw the game and lose on purpose, because if they lost too many times it stopped being fun for them and they’d no longer want to play. Oh, but when she lost theylovedto play with their aunt Samantha, would giggle each time she lost and poke fun at her for being terrible. Without fail, they always begged her to play.
