His gaze finally breaks from mine, looking at anything but my face. “I was just

checking something,” he says, his voice so low it’s a whisper.

“Oh, you were ‘checking something?’” I echo, my tone chalk full of disbelief. “By

switching labels and possibly ruining our dish? Hm?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, the perfect picture of guilt.

“I was just…” He stammers, his voice trailing off.

I can’t take it anymore. I’m getting those truffles—the real black truffles, the ones

that are balled up in his filthy little hand, about to be slipped into his pocket—for

Abby, one way or another.

Enter title…

of a plan, I find myself

and snatch the truffles out of

for the others to hear.

you up to this?”

come into my possession,

suddenly, he’s cradling

pain.

You

in hand, shocked. “I did

you!”

walls, drawing eyes toward us

deathly silent, save for his accusations.

our direction, eager to

him! He’s lying!” I protest, holding out the

“He was

truffles and—”

it’s too late; the narrative has shifted, and I can see it in the way

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