My eyes drifted to another screen, a feed from the main kitchen entrance. I saw my daughter, Chloe. Her face was flushed with the heat and pressure of the kitchen, her movements quick and efficient as she balanced a heavy tray of finished plates. A surge of fierce, maternal pride washed over me, a warmth that was immediately followed by a familiar pang of anxiety.

She had insisted on this job, on earning her own way through her culinary arts degree by starting in the trenches. “I don’t want to be the owner’s daughter, Mom,” she had argued, her jaw set with a stubbornness she inherited directly from me. “I want to be a chef. A real one. And you have to start at the bottom, in the heat.” I had respected her integrity, her fierce need for independence. But it placed her directly in the lion’s den. It placed her in Michael Peterson’s path.

Then, my phone, resting silently on the cool marble of the desk, vibrated. A text message. It was from Chloe. My blood ran cold before I even read the words. Mothers have an instinct for the specific frequency of their child’s fear.

“MOM! I need help. The new manager is trying to frame me for stealing cash from the register. He’s calling the police! I’m scared, please hurry!”