Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Chapter 0353

Abby

The next few days feel like a blur. I can barely sleep, I can barely eat, and my mind is consumed with

thoughts of nothing but my poor restaurant. My phone is ringing off the hook with a combination of calls

from worried friends and nosey journalists; I choose to ignore the latter. And all the while, I feel like a

tiger pacing in her cage.

The activity outside of my apartment has increased thanks to the press, and I can barely even leave

the house. Yesterday, Chloe brought me some groceries, which she had to sneak through the back

door.

I told her to go straight home after I paid her, because I feel like my apartment is a ticking time bomb. It

doesn’t feel safe here anymore. I feel like I’m on display, all because of something that I’m sure was

sabotage.

In the midst of my restless pacing this afternoon, I decide to call Officer Martinez, the police officer I

spoke to when I provided my statement. She seemed sympathetic to my struggles, and I figure that

maybe she has some updates on the investigation.

I dial her number and wait, my heart pounding in my chest as the phone rings. After what feels like an

eternity, she finally answers.

“Officer Martinez speaking.” NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

“Hey, it’s Abby,” I say, my voice trembling slightly. “I was wondering if you’ve made any progress with

the investigation.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end, and I can hear the weariness in her voice when she replies.

“I’m afraid not, Abby,” she says gently. “We’ve sent the surveillance tapes in for analysis, but it’ll be a

few days before we have any results.”

I let out a frustrated sigh, my impatience getting the better of me. “A few days? Officer Martinez, I

understand that these things take time, but my restaurant could be shut down within that time frame.”

She sounds sympathetic, but her response is firm. “I know it’s difficult, Abby,” she replies, “but we have

to be thorough in our investigation. Rushing things won’t help anyone. I would advise you to just lay low

and wait for me to call you back.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside of me. “Thank you, Officer

Martinez. I know you’re doing your best. I just... I can’t help but feel helpless in all of this.”

“I know how you feel,” she says, her tone softening. “But just trust me. I’m doing the best I can.”

I nod, even though I know she can’t see me. “I’m sorry. I’ll be more patient.”

“Don’t worry, Abby,” she adds. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I believe you, even if no one else does.”

Her words are a soothing balm, and I let out a relieved sigh. It feels good knowing that other people are

believing in me, even if my friends seem to think that I’m losing my mind.

“Thanks, officer,” I say with a slight smile. “I appreciate it.”

…

It feels like torture. Another day passes without hearing anything, and I feel like I’m going to lose my

mind. I can’t even turn on the TV without seeing some news report about the horrific Alpha gathering.

But then, I’m sitting on my couch, trying to read a book although I’m not comprehending any of the

words, when it happens.

My phone rings.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I throw my book down and practically leap across the room. “Hello?” I

answer breathlessly without even checking the caller ID.

There’s a pause, and then a man’s voice on the other end. “Is this Abby?”

“Yes,” I reply cautiously. “How can I help you?”

“Hello, Abby,” he says. “This is Mr. Harrison from the health department. I’m calling to let you know that

the results from your food samples have come back from the lab.”

Finally. After almost a week of waiting, they’ve arrived. But instead of feeling excited, I just feel a sense

of dread settle in my stomach.

I swallow hard, my voice barely more than a whisper. “And?”

There’s a heavy pause, and my mind races with a million different possibilities. Please, let it be okay.

Let it be a mistake. But something tells me that that’s not the case.

“The results,” he finally says, “showed a significant presence of Escherichia coli bacteria in one specific

dish—your flatbread pizza.”

My heart sinks like a stone in my chest, and I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. “E. coli?” I repeat,

my voice trembling. “But that’s... that’s impossible.”

I can almost hear the indifference in his voice as he responds. “I assure you, miss, the results are

accurate. We don’t make mistakes here.”

“But the flatbread pizza?” I protest, desperation creeping into my voice. “It was a vegetarian dish, and

it’s cooked at high temperatures. E. coli usually comes from meat, right?”

He doesn't sound sympathetic in the least. “While it’s more commonly associated with meat, E. coli can

still be present in vegetables or other ingredients,” he explains. “And cooking temperatures may not

always eliminate it entirely.”

“But it just doesn’t make sense,” I argue, my mind racing to find an explanation. “I use fresh

ingredients, and the pizza oven reaches incredibly high temperatures. I’ve never had any issues

before.”

The health department official remains unmoved. “Regardless, the test results are conclusive, miss.

Due to the contamination found in your restaurant, we have no choice but to take immediate action.”

Dread washes over me, and I can barely find my voice. “What kind of action?”

My world shatters at that moment. The restaurant I poured my heart and soul into, the place that was

not just my livelihood but my dream—it’s all slipping through my fingers.

“And then what?” I mutter. “What will happen after that?”

Tears well up in my eyes, and I struggle to hold them back. “This is devastating,” I whisper, my voice

cracking.

The health department official’s response, however, is devoid of sympathy. “We have to prioritize public

safety.” Coոtent beloոgs to Draмąnоvеls.cоm

I can’t hold back the tears any longer, and they spill down my cheeks as I clutch the phone. “But this is

my life,” I choke out. “Everything I’ve built, everything I’ve worked for…”

“I’m sorry, miss,” he says, although his tone remains cold and detached. “But these are the necessary

steps to ensure the safety of your customers and the community.”

Before I can answer, he hangs up. I slump onto the couch, my mind spinning with thoughts of what this

closure will mean for my restaurant, my employees, and myself.

But as I sit there, lost in my pain, my thoughts return to the puzzling news—the presence of E. coli in

my flatbread pizza.

Otherwise, everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve will crumble in my hands.