Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“This is Earl’s order, yeah?” I ask.
“Yep,” Stuart replies. “Pepperoni, mushrooms, and extra black olives.”
“Right. Extra is good, but let’s toss on a few more, just in case,” I say with a grin. Earl loves his olives—every time, he insists I dump half a can on his pie. “Let’s really blow his mind.”
Stuart snickers and sprinkles on more of the salty black orbs. “Sure thing, boss.”
I watch him work, feeling a rush of fondness for this little pizza family I’ve built. We might not be the biggest pizzeria in town, but we’ve got heart—and, in my humble opinion, the best crust in the entire state.
Once Stuart slides the pie into the oven, I’m already imagining Earl’s delight when he cracks open the box. Moments like that—seeing the joy my pizzas bring—are why I keep fighting the good fight…dough under my nails, sauce stains on my apron, and a smile on my face.
Sometimes I wonder if this is exactly what I was born to do: feed people, make them happy, and maybe give them a delicious memory or two. After all, if you can’t find joy in a gooey slice of pizza, are you really living?
“Thanks for a great day,” I say, patting Stuart on the back. “Now let’s finish strong and get this bad boy to Earl. Then we can finally call it quits.”
With the final pizza baking, I take one last glance around the shop—at the red-checkered tablecloths, the cheesy pizza-themed décor, and the high school kids laughing as they walk out the door after getting their orders. It’s all mine, and even on the hardest days, it’s totally worth it.
I smile as I make my way toward the back of Slice Slice Baby, weaving through the kitchen and into my cramped little office. It’s more like a glorified closet with a desk, but I cherish every corner of this place. Settling into my squeaky office chair, I boot up my computer to run the end-of-day reports. My eyes land on the inbox, and my stomach twists the second I notice an unread email from an address I don’t recognize.
Great. Probably another spammy message, I think, though unease prickles at the back of my neck. For the past few months, my inbox has been a minefield. A little voice in my head whispers that this might not be spam—it could be the latest threat from whoever’s been targeting me. I feel my breath hitch, but before I can even click on it, a thunderous crash echoes from the front of the pizzeria.
My heart plunges into my stomach. “Stuart?” I call, launching out of my seat.
I sprint across the kitchen, flinging open the swinging doors that lead to the dining area. The entire space is littered with shards of broken glass. My eyes land on Stuart, who’s standing near the front window, looking more than a little rattled.
“I’m okay,” he assures me hastily, though his voice wavers. “Everything’s okay.”
I step closer, taking in the horrifying sight. Our big front window is shattered, and a cold draft whips through the shop. “What happened?” I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
Stuart moves toward me, clutching a brick in his hands. “I think…it’s a brick,” he says, his expression unsure, like he’s still trying to process it.
I gingerly sidestep the glass crunching under my sneakers. “Be careful,” I warn, quickly checking him over. No cuts, thank goodness. Then I notice something else: a piece of paper wrapped around the brick, held by a rubber band.
Stuart extends the brick. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, guilt pooling in his eyes.
I take it from him, carefully sliding off the note. My fingers tremble as I unfold the paper. Two words stare back at me in thick black marker: Die bitch.
I swallow hard, my vision blurring with tears. I refuse to cry in front of Stuart—he’s only a teenager, and I’m supposed to be the adult holding it all together.
Suddenly, Earl, my most loyal customer, appears in the doorway, clearly alarmed. “Oh my God, what happened?” He rushes over, and I silently hand him the note. The expression on his face darkens as he reads the words. “I’m calling the police,” he says, already dialing on his phone.
Before I can protest, Stuart gasps. “Earl, your pizza!” He dashes behind the counter and flings open the oven door, pulling out Earl’s order. Smoke puffs around him, and the smell of toasted cheese mingles with the metallic scent of broken glass.
Earl waves him off. “Don’t worry about that.” Phone pressed to his ear, he rattles off details to the 9-1-1 operator. Meanwhile, I’m still standing in the center of shattered glass, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.
The threats started three months ago—anonymous emails, weird phone calls at odd hours, stuff that made me anxious but never truly scared. At first, they were mild: telling me I should ‘watch my back,’ or claiming they didn’t like my pizza (which, obviously, is a crime in and of itself). Over time, though, they’ve become bolder and more hateful.