Taste (Take It Off #9)(21)
Author: Cambria Hebert

“But you said…” I echoed, feeling sick.

“I said there weren’t any prints. There weren’t. No viable ones anyway,” he muttered and slapped down a manila folder on the desk. I jumped at the sudden burst of sound.

“I think she’s had enough,” Spencer said, putting a hand to the small of my back. “She’s told you everything.”

“A million times,” I muttered.

Spencer covered a laugh with his cough.

Mr. Walsh studied me for long moments, then sighed dejectedly. “Yeah.” I watched as he scrubbed a hand over his craggy features and then plopped down in the black leather chair behind the desk. “What a fucking clusterfuck.”

Apparently Spencer learned his fowl language here at work.

“You can’t go home ‘til your normal time,” he said. “We don’t—”

“Want it to look suspicious.” I finished. “Yeah, I know.”

He had the grace to cringe.

“You can’t go back onto normal kitchen duty,” he said, reminding me that while he might not think I’m totally guilty, he wasn’t ready to declare I wasn’t either.

“We need cookies,” Spencer said. “She can go make some.”

“You can’t be cooking for the first family,” Walsh said, no apology in his tone.

“Good. More for me,” Spencer said good-naturedly.

I was standing there trying not to be angry that I was still suspected of trying to poison people.

Walsh looked between Spencer and me. Then he sighed. “What kind you making?” Walsh directed the question at me.

“Chocolate chip,” Spencer answered.

I raised my eyebrows at Mr. Walsh and said, “Apparently, chocolate chip.”

“All right,” he sighed. “Go.” He waved his hands at the door as he spoke.

Spencer went around me to pull open the door and hold it open. I stepped out into the hall, feeling like a freed inmate

“Waller, I want to talk to you,” Walsh said from inside the room.

I grimaced and looked at Spencer. He was probably going to get a lecture for consorting with a suspected criminal.

Spencer didn’t seem concerned. He winked. “Go make my cookies, woman.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I walked away, down the hall. Seconds later, the door to the office closed and another suit-wearing agent fell into step beside me.

I gave him a glance. He looked at me with no expression.

“You were told to watch me?” I asked without heat.

He nodded once.

I wasn’t surprised, not at all.

“Well, come on, then, warden,” I said, heading to the kitchen and resigned myself to being watched like a hawk for the rest of the day.

11

Generally speaking, cookies make everyone happy.

Unless, of course, you are a Secret Service agent with a stick up your ass.

After spending endless hours being questioned and scrutinized, I was tired of gloomy, constipated expressions. I thought finally being allowed to escape to the kitchen would be a relief. Instead, I got stuck with a guard who probably wouldn’t crack a smile to save his life.

It led me to believe two things:

1.) He really thought I was guilty and was pissed he had to babysit me.

or…

2.) He really was constipated and mad he couldn’t go to the bathroom.

I was going to go with the latter because I literally could not make a move or add an ingredient to the mixing bowl without him watching like a hawk. It became crystal clear that he was sent to make sure I didn’t poison anyone.

Frankly, I was offended.

I mean, who in their ever-loving mind would uncover a plot to poison the president and then go into the kitchen and make poisoned cookies?

Actually, that was probably already an episode on some weird crime drama on TV.

I felt my shoulders slump a little. I understood why I was being watched. I was surprised they were letting me anywhere in the kitchen. Of course, I was in the small kitchen off the large one. I was alone (except for ol’ Hawk Eyes, of course), and I had already been told no one could eat what I made. Except for Spencer, of course. He was eating at his own risk.

The spatula I was using to incorporate the chocolate chunks into the dough clattered against the porcelain when I dropped it. Realization dawned.

I was going to get fired.

It didn’t matter that I was innocent. It didn’t matter that I told the truth. It didn’t matter that I literally had been studying culinary arts since the age of seventeen, having graduated a year early and then dedicated my life to working my way up to this job. All the time I spent sacrificing my free time and then later my time with my infant son so I could advance my career and have a solid background to take me into my thirties… it was all for nothing.

I was ruined.

My dishes, no matter how artfully prepared, would be tainted in suspicion.

“Miss?” the watchman said as I sniffled.

“Sorry,” I said, grabbing a nearby napkin and wiping my eyes. After rewashing my hands, I scooped out equal-sized cookies (I used an ice cream scoop, makes the perfect size every time) and slid them into the already heated oven.

I busied myself cleaning up the minimal mess I made and became rather irritated that whenever I shifted, so did the man assigned to me. He kept my hands in view at all times. I could have made it harder for him, but why bother?

Besides, I didn’t have anything to hide, and acting like a child was plain stupid.

The little timer on the oven went off, and I pulled out two large cookie sheets from the double ovens and set them on the stone counter. After letting them cool on the sheet for a couple minutes, I began sliding them off one by one with a metal spatula and onto a cooling rack. Once that was done, I slid the cookie sheets into the industrial-sized washing machine and grabbed a large white platter to put them on when they were cool.

The air was scented with the sweet smell of chocolate and sugar. It reminded me of when I was little and my mom and I would bake in the kitchen together. She always measured out the ingredients, and then I would add them to the bowl. She never minded when I ate the cookie dough, even though they say you aren’t supposed to because of the raw egg. Eating the dough was always half the fun of baking.

It was something I always planned to do with Jack. Those were the kind of memories I wanted him to have. That is if I somehow wasn’t wrongfully indicted for conspiracy to commit murder.

I felt bone weary, like all I wanted to do was lie down and let my body sink into the mattress of my bed. I wanted to hold my son and see his little chubby cheeks and listen to his baby babbling.