Page 9 of Off the Grid
The men shared a look. “We need to speak with him.”
“Who’s there, honey?” her mother called, a strain of annoyance in her tone. She hated to be interrupted when she had guests—there was nothing more important than maintaining her mirage of perfection.
“Two men,” McKenzie shouted back.
“Mrs. Harper?” The man who’d been talking loudened his voice. “Are you home? Could you please come to the door? We need to speak with your husband.”
“Excuse me,” her mother murmured to her friends. The words were faint, but McKenzie heard the fear laced through them. She turned in time to see her mother freeze as she stepped around the door. Her face fell. A sudden dread raced through McKenzie’s nerves, tying them into a bundle of knots.
“Mom?”
“Go upstairs,” her mother ordered, voice dark. She kept her eyes on the men.
“Mom?”
“Upstairs, now!” That time her tone was shrill. “Yolanda, take McKenzie to her room, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” her nanny answered, appearing out of nowhere. “Come,mija.”
A loving hand pressed against the small of her back, guiding her up the stairs as her mother shouted, “Charles!”
McKenzie reached her bedroom door, but before she followed Yolanda inside, she heard her father’s study door open. The look in his eyes froze the air in her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. He lifted the corner of his lip, seemingly calm, but McKenzie knew exactly what it was—the face of a man trying and failing to be brave.
Her father walked closer and knelt before her, then put his finger beneath her chin. “It’ll be okay, Mac. I promise.”
Then he hastened downstairs. McKenzie watched him, ignoring Yolanda’s attempts to guide her into her room until her father disappeared from view. She spun toward her nanny the instant he was gone.
“Yoyo, what’s going on?”
“It’s okay,mija,” her nanny whispered, using a soothing voice as she guided her into her room.
McKenzie raced for the bay window on the far side of her room, then dropped to the cushions and pressed her nose to the glass. She had a perfect view of the front yard. Two black cars she didn’t recognize were parked in the circular drive. On the street, there were three more cars, but they had a word she recognized written on the side—police.
Muffled voices traveled up the stairs like thunder, growing louder, quicker, an oncoming storm. Suddenly, the two men appeared below her window. Her father stood between them, his head hanging low and his wrists bound by gleaming metal. Before McKenzie could process, they shoved him into the car. Her mother ran out, screaming and yelling, chasing after the cars as they slid undeterred down the drive. McKenzie didn’t move until two arms came around her, pulling her into a warm chest.
“Estara bien,” Yolanda murmured, holding her close and running a soothing hand through her hair. “Estara bien.”
It was only then she realized she was crying.
The Feds came back a few more times after that. Once to ransack the house. Once to drop her father off on bail. Once to drag him off to jail. The experience had given McKenzie a knee-jerk reaction to police officers showing up at her front door—hide.
Don’t think about that.
Not today.
Bright lights pierced her eyes, painful. McKenzie blinked, clearing her vision and her mind. They’d arrived at the next platform just in time. She gripped a pole to keep her balance as the train slowed, a gut reaction after living in this city for so long. As soon as the doors opened, she strode off. Usually, she waited until the next stop to get off, but she needed to get out of these tunnels. She needed to move. She needed the distraction.
Think about your menu.
Think about your plan.
As McKenzie shuffled with the masses, her focus returned to her food, her one constant. She reviewed the numbers—each perfect measurement, each precise minute—finding solace in their consistency. Baking, at least, would never fail her.
When she finally yanked open the door to the restaurant and stepped into the kitchen, McKenzie was ready. First things first, she pulled out her chef coat, shrugged it on, and double-checked the bun on top of her head to make sure it was still tight. Loose hairs were the death of any great dish. Then she pulled her recipes from her bag—all handwritten and color-coded by time. She had them memorized by now, but it was helpful to have the pages set out along the prep table just in case. Many of the steps had been crossed out—she’d made nearly all the decorations and doughs earlier in the week—but there was still plenty left to do.
McKenzie folded her fingers together and stretched her arms high overhead, taking a deep breath.
You can do this.
