Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
“Hi, Harold. Is Piper home?”
Oh, wait. Jenn?
I recognize the voice immediately and run to the front door.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll take it from here,” I say.
The wild-eyed look on her face instantly scares me.
“Whoa, what’s wrong?” I ask.
“Have you heard? I’m sure he’s going to be a mess when he gets back to the office,” she rushes out.
What? Something happened to Brock?
I shake my head. “What happened?”
A horrible thought flashes through my mind. Oh, no, I hope it’s not his grandparents.
Dad moves out of the doorway so Jenn can come in.
“Massive food poisoning at the fashion conference!” Jenn belts out, flapping her hands.
I stop and stare at her.
“You’re serious? How is that even possible? Corporate was combing through every kitchen to make sure those crappy reviews were unfounded, and the Winthrope Seattle never had tons of food complaints...”
“Thought the same thing, but it’s all over the news, Pippa. It looks like a warzone. People throwing up in plants because the bathrooms were overflowing, others carrying out their friends. Everyone got hit. Famous YouTubers, fashion designers, even the press. Total disaster.”
I slink against the wall with my throat burning, still trying to understand.
“Holy hell. Come on, follow me.” I duck back in my room and grab my phone.
I have to see this for myself.
A quick search for Seattle fashion conventions proves Jenn right. It’s all over Twitter and the local press sites.
More than a hundred people rushed to the hospital—ranging from influencers to paper pushers—all over a fast-acting food poisoning believed to be caused by bad oysters.
I scan the article. “Jesus. They’re already talking about a class-action lawsuit.”
“This is the kind of thing that leads to layoffs. I hope there aren’t layoffs. We’ll be dead meat for years and guess who’s on the chopping block when you can’t market your way out of this?” She falls on my bed, bouncing like a statue.
“God, I hope he’s okay.”
My stomach sinks as soon as I say it.
Guilt pummels me.
I want to help so bad, but how?
Things might be ugly personally, but he’s still the man who saved Dad’s life.
He can’t just suffer through this, alone and ruined and isolated.
“Pippa, are you okay? You look pale.”
“I have to help Brock,” I whisper.
“Like how? You’re not a lawyer. It already happened. It’s all over except for the tears and some major money changing hands.”
“I shouldn’t have quit before the conference,” I snap.
“Don’t go there. You had nothing to do with this. He didn’t give you much choice, remember?” she reminds me. “Besides, it’s not like you planned the menu or the catering.”
I look up sharply. “Who did?”
Her brow knits together. “Good question. Probably the hotel manager or the chef? I think there was a catering company too. Oof, everyone is going to be coming for their head.”
“Isn’t the award conference next week? This won’t just blow over. It’s not the kind of thing he’ll ever let go, especially once his grandparents find out. But there were other reports of food poisoning and they were unfounded,” I say, racking my brain.
“What? You think a hundred people are in on the lie?” she asks.
“No. But there were some well-known influencers who bought into the last lies—”
“Pippa... I don’t know. That’s pretty out there,” Jenn says, folding her hands in her lap.
Out there, but not impossible.
“Remember when we were in Chicago?”
She nods.
“We found proof the knives were out for Winthrope, and I’m pretty sure Brock was right about that Apollo guy. Total lunatic.” I wince, remembering how he grabbed me.
“You think something like that happened here?” She frowns, turning it over in her head. “I dunno. It’s a pretty big leap from mangled towels and fake duck eggs to mass poisoning people. It’s so horrible.”
“Oh, I’m not denying it. Still...” I pace the room a few times. “Still, it’s also the knockout punch some hypercompetitive moron needs who’s after that award like a greyhound chasing a rabbit.”
Jenn looks down. She clearly doesn’t want to believe it.
“You think it’s impossible?” I challenge.
“Not necessarily. I’m just trying to imagine how crazy you’d have to be to do something that illegal. Who makes a whole crowd barf over a freaking award?”
I have to stop and ask the same question.
Am I going too far?
Paying a few bad actors to leave craptacular reviews is one thing.
The other means millions in damages and probably some jail time.
Is Finch really that criminally insane?
A chill rolls up my spine as I ponder.
And if he is, what else could he do to Brock?
“You know, I’m not sure I buy it, but I’ll tell you one thing,” Jenn says, spinning her phone slowly as she thinks. “Brock and Keenan were talking about the menu. I heard them arguing over it a few times. I can’t see them making this kind of mistake with bad seafood when they were so invested.” She sighs. “I guess it’s always possible. But it’d be a supplier thing, probably, and it’d be like getting hit by lightning while a rabid bat bites you in the tit—”