Taste Test (28 page)

It’s fine
, I mouth at her.

I set myself up on the farthest end of Christian’s station and start prepping my pan for the scallops. A good sear is the most important element of the whole dish. Too wet and the scallops boil, not brown. Too dry and they burn. You need a smoking-hot pan to do it right. People rely way too much on nonstick surfaces and, like Dad says, the only thing they’re good for is gray food.

I hear the hissing before I see—or smell—anything.

“What the hell is that sound?”

I look at Christian. He turns the knob for his front burner, but nothing happens. He shakes his head, tries again.

“You have
got
to be kidding me!” He kicks at a rubber tube that’s sticking out from the bottom of the range.

I freeze.

And then, the pungent odor of gas burns my nostrils.

When you’re terrified, it’s as if all your senses are on high alert. I can see everything so sharply, so clearly, that it’s somehow more real, more urgent. My ears capture even the tiniest, most insignificant sounds. Sounds that, under normal circumstances, are nothing more than mundane.

Sounds like the flint of a seemingly broken burner finally sparking to life.

I’m not fast enough. I can’t cry out. I watch in horror as Christian looks at me, his triumph melting to confusion at the expression on my face.

A split second later, the world around me explodes. I’m blinded by fire so pale, it’s almost white under the fluorescent lighting. The piercing burn of my skin forces me backward, in the opposite direction of where I want to be going.

All that clarity from moments ago is gone.

The only thing I’m aware of is what’s in front of me: Christian, paralyzed in the middle of the room, his helpless body engulfed in flames.

“Nora, get back!”

I hear Gigi’s voice, feel her arms around my waist, dragging me away from the fire. I watch as someone tackles Christian to the ground, smothering his body with something—a blanket, maybe? As though a dam breaks inside me, a scream rises up and out of my throat.

Before I can attempt to stop them, Benny and Gigi pull me out of the arena and into the hallway. I beat my fists against the painted cinder-block walls, clawing my way toward the door, my mouth unable to close—unable to utter anything but a howl of terror. Gigi’s still holding me, trying to grab my hands, to force me not to break them as I punch anything I can reach.

“Shh. Nora, please. He’s gonna be okay.”

I don’t believe her. I don’t believe anyone anymore. I think about Angela—the blood leeching into her clothing. I think about Joy—unconscious on the arena floor. It’s only fair that now, today, would be the worst one. The last one. Christian is Holden Prescott’s next victim.

No.

Christian is Prescott’s
last
victim.

I push Gigi off me, force myself up to standing, and head for the arena doors.

“Nora, what are you doing? There’s nothing you can do for him right now.”

“I’m not going in there for Christian. I’m going in there for Prescott.”

“Nora …” Gigi trails off, her expression pale. “I really don’t—I mean, you need to wait for the paramedics. They might want to check you out, too.”

I ignore her. Moments later, I burst into the almost-empty arena. A haze of smoke and the smell of burnt fabric hangs heavy in the air. I want to cough, but I don’t. Coughing is weak. I need to look strong. I walk toward where the judges are standing, talking to several of the show’s producers.

“You.”

Heads spin around to look at me. There’s no sign of Christian, which I can only hope means he’s somewhere safe, getting help. Good. That will make this easier.

“You.” I say it again, wishing my eyes could pierce Prescott’s skin. I take a step toward him, but there’s no panic, no worry in his face. He seems completely unaffected by my presence. Then, he crosses his arms over his chest. A protective pose. A shield.

“Nora …” Benny is walking toward me, his face full of concern. “Honey, we really need you to get checked out by emergency personnel. Please, whatever this is, it can wait.”

“NO!” I brush his hand away, never taking my eyes off of Prescott.

“Nora.” Ms. Svincek steps forward. “Why don’t you sit down? We’ll get you a glass of water.”

She, like Gigi and Benny, looks a little nervous, as though she expects me to grab a butcher knife and go for the jugular.

I shake my head again, still moving toward Prescott.

“So, how did you do it?”

“How did I do what?” His voice is chilled and slick, leaving nothing for me to cling on to except what I know is true.

“Let’s start with the sink,” I hiss. “Was it some kind of minibomb? Liquid gunpowder you can slip inside a faucet?”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right. Fine—then what about the food processors. And the microwaves? They malfunctioned on their own? And, let me guess, the meat cleavers just up and walked away?”

He opens his mouth again, but I interrupt him.

“How exactly did it feel to electrocute your girlfriend, huh?”

“Nora … ,” Gigi says weakly, looking at me with a pained expression. “Don’t.”

I ignore her. Instead, I start walking closer to Prescott, glaring at him as though my gaze alone could set him on fire.

“You didn’t get to see her on the ground, motionless,” I say in almost a whisper, “but the rest of us did. Why—why did it matter to you if she won or lost? Why did you need to hurt her—or Angela?”

“Look”—he leans toward me, eyes flashing—“I don’t know what you
think
you know—but what you’re accusing me of is both impossible and ridiculous.”

“Oh, really? Why is that?” I shoot back.

“Because the judges don’t have access to the arena unless
the contestants are in here. What do you think the guards are for, genius?”

I stop for a second, a stutter in my rant. Then I shake my head.

“Ms. Svincek saw you—she told the cops.”

Prescott looks from me to Ms. Svincek, his eyes wide. I guess he didn’t know she’d been the one to turn him in.

“Nora, listen—” Gigi starts toward me, but Ms. Svincek grabs her arm. Gigi shakes her off. “Look, I need to tell you something.”

Ms. Svincek stands up quickly, her expression strained.

“You know, we’ve had an awfully long day, ladies and gentlemen! How about we go cool off? All of this will take care of itself.”

“No,” I snap. I refuse to let this go on one minute longer. I turn to Gigi and shake my head.

“Look, nothing you say could possibly be half as important as this right now.” I glare at Prescott. “He’s going down and he knows it.”

“No,” Gigi says quietly. “He isn’t.”

I hardly hear her, refusing to take my eyes off my target. To make me focus, to make me see her, Gigi moves into my line of vision, blocking my view of Prescott.

“He isn’t going down, Nora, because he didn’t do it. Any of it.”

“What?” I straighten up, staring at her. “What are you talking about?”

“The explosions. The accidents. They weren’t Prescott’s fault.”

“Well, then whose fault were they?” I ask, trying to look over her shoulder.

She grabs my face, forcing me to meet her eyes.

“Mine.”

The world stops turning. I can’t move.

“What—what do you mean?” I manage.

She looks incredibly sad as she focuses on the ground then back up at me.

“I’m the one who did it. The sink. The outlet.” She pauses for another second. “The gas connection to the stoves. I’m the one who’s been sabotaging
Taste Test
.”

I stare at her dumbly. Her eyes are big and full of tears. I want to hug her. I want to slap her. I don’t know what I want.

“Please,” she pleads, reaching out to grab my arm. I pull away, shaking my head.

“How did you—why did—” I stumble over the questions I want to ask and, somehow, just can’t get any out.

Chef Mason and Madame Bouchon are looking at Gigi in shock. Benny and several executives stand just a few yards back, whispering urgently. I can almost hear their conversation—what should we do? How should we proceed? Should we be filming this?

“But Gigi,” Madame Bouchon says quietly, “why? Why would you do those horrible things?”

I expect Gigi to falter at any moment, to bend and break under the scrutiny. I know I would. Instead, she takes a deep breath and straightens up. She turns and looks at Ms. Svincek.

“Because my mother told me to.”

Police Report

SERGEANT PHILIP JENKINS

Arrived at the North American Culinary Academy campus at approximately 8:00 p.m. upon receiving radio transmission about suspected criminal activity. Ambulance already on the scene at time of arrival. Male, 17 years old, treated for second-degree burns, taken to Lake Haven General for further treatment.

Arrested Kathryn Helen Svincek, age 47. Accused of assault with a deadly weapon, tampering with evidence, corruption—possible further charges pending.

IN CUSTODY—Georgina “Gigi” Svincek, daughter of the accused. Apparently infiltrated
Taste Test
competition per mother’s instructions, responsible for two recent injuries to contestants Angela Moore and Joy Kennedy-Swanson, both of whom have been contacted for further interviews.

TO BE DETERMINED:

• Devices implemented or rigged to create seemingly accidental injuries

• Possible access to chemicals (waterline explosion)

• Assistance from crew members possible

Chapter Nineteen

Fool Me Twice? Not a Chance.

When you’re trying a new recipe, sometimes it’s hard to see what it’s missing. There are the obvious things—salt, pepper, sugar, things that balance the elements. Then there are the ones you’ve never thought of: a pinch of allspice in beef stew, a dusting of curry powder in chicken salad.

But, in any recipe, the missing ingredient is clear once you’ve put your finger on it.

“Your mother?” Mason asks, looking around the arena. A hundred questions hang in the space around us. Svincek pulls a cheerful mask on over the shell-shocked expression she’s been wearing.

“Please, let me explain.” She walks forward, shooting Gigi a murderous glance. “It’s not what you think it is.”

“It’s
exactly
what you think it is,” Gigi interjects. She looks at Ms. Svincek—her mother—and shakes her head. “I’m not going to do it, Mom. I’m not going to lie anymore.”

Ms. Svincek moves in quickly, grabbing Gigi’s arm hard enough that she winces. “And you’re comfortable being responsible for ruining my career, Georgina?”

Gigi yanks her arm away.

“If that’s what happens, it happens. All I know is that I can’t do this anymore.”

“You ungrateful brat, you’re going to destroy what we’ve worked so hard for!”

Gigi shakes her head. “No, Mom. I’ve already destroyed enough. It’s time for me to make things right.”

She turns to face the judges, but her eyes are trained on me.

“My dad was the one who taught me to cook,” she begins, “and I grew to love it as much as he did. My mom, however—well, she’s always said that a talent is only good when it has a direct use. She insisted I work behind the scenes, helping to cater all the academic functions. I was ten when I made my first soufflé; at twelve, I orchestrated my first ten-course dinner. I loved to cook because my dad and I did it together.

“But once
Taste Test
moved to the NACA campus and Dad was put in charge, he didn’t have time for anything else. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I saw him cook anything just for fun.”

“This is no one’s business,” Ms. Svincek snaps, but you can see her shoulders have slumped under the weight of her daughter’s confession. Gigi ignores her.

“Last summer, my dad died while on set after hours. He had a heart attack, but no one was there to help him. My mom and I didn’t even know until the next morning; they didn’t find him until the crew came in for the day shift.”

I look down at my hands. I remember Ms. Svincek lamenting the unfortunate loss of her husband at orientation. I could never imagine that her grief was Gigi’s to share.

Reliving the tragedy has seemingly given new life to Ms. Svincek, who has straightened up and is walking toward the other judges with a sneer across her face.

“My husband devoted his life to this show.
And it killed him
.”

The room is completely silent. Everyone is staring at Ms. Svincek and Gigi.

“Mom … ,” Gigi begins. Ms. Svincek shakes her head.

“Did you know that he left us nothing? No savings? No retirement? He sunk everything he had into
Taste Test
, so sure that it would pay him back in the end.” She barks an angry, almost maniacal laugh. “Well, it did that all right!”

Unable to continue, Ms. Svincek collapses into a folding chair. Gigi moves to stand next to her mother, her eyes filled with tears.

“When they offered Mom the NACA presidency, she wasn’t going to accept it. We talked about moving away, about starting over. And then, she came up with the
Taste Test
audition idea. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money and could really help us. It wasn’t until later that I found out she had changed my name—since my parents never let me on the set, no one on the show knew who I was or what I looked like. Mom said I had to be Gigi Orsoni to get a fair shot with the judges. I didn’t know what she was planning to do.

“She had me rig the sink first. After Angela got hurt, which she swore was an accident, she moved on to smaller things. She told me that shorting the microwaves and stealing
the cleavers were actually strategies the judges approved of, ways to make the contestants think of alternatives on the fly.”