Chapter 2

I crushed another cigarette into the ashtray. Herman's greasy smile kept flashing through my head. 50,000 dollars. The number burned behind my eyes.

I needed to think. Needed to remember how I got here.

Two years ago.

The police lights painted everything red and blue. I stood behind the yellow tape, watching them carry Mom out of Room 21.

"Jade." Marcus walked over, "I'm sorry for your loss."

"What happened?" My voice sounded far away.

He pulled out a notepad but didn't look at it. "Looks like an accident. She fell, hit her head on the bathroom sink."

"An accident?"

"The door was unlocked. No signs of struggle. The medical examiner will confirm, but—"

"The door lock was broken," I said. My hands were shaking. "And there are scuff marks on the floor. Right there, you can see them."

Marcus glanced at Room 21's door. "Jade—"

"Someone was in there with her."

"We'll investigate, of course." His tone said otherwise. "But without witnesses, without a suspect..."

"So you're just going to call it an accident and move on?"

"I'm sorry." He put his hand on my shoulder. I shoved it off.

The medical examiner's van pulled away. Mom's body inside a black bag. Just like that. Gone.

I stood there until the crowd dispersed. Until the motel manager turned off the lights. Until Marcus drove away in his patrol car.

The night was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.

Six weeks later, I used Mom's insurance payout to open Jade's Smokehouse.

It was her dream, not mine. She'd talked about it constantly. "One day, Jade, we'll have our own place. Best BBQ in Texas. People will line up around the block."

The building was small. The equipment was used. But it was ours.

I worked sixteen-hour days. Learned to smoke brisket, perfect the rub, master the sauce Mom had taught me. Her secret recipe, the one thing she'd left me that mattered.

For three weeks, maybe five customers came in. Total.

Then Chuck walked in.

He owned the BBQ place two blocks over. Big guy, thick mustache, Texas flag tattooed on his forearm.

"So you're the new girl." He looked around my shop like it was a joke. "A little thing like you thinks she can make BBQ?"

"I'm doing fine, thanks."

Chuck laughed. "Honey, this is Texas. We've been smoking meat for generations. You think some outsider can just waltz in?"

"My mother was from here."

"Yeah?" He leaned against the counter. "Well, she ain't here now, is she?"

I wanted to hit him. Instead, I smiled. "Have a good day, Chuck."

He left, still laughing.

A week later, Chuck's menu had a "new" sauce. The same tangy-sweet flavor Mom had perfected. The same hint of coffee and brown sugar. Exactly the same.

I stormed into his restaurant.

"You stole my recipe."

Chuck was behind the counter, cutting brisket. He didn't even look up. "That's a serious accusation."

"I know what you did."

Now he looked at me. "Prove it."

"I—"

"You got witnesses? Video? Anything?" His smile was all teeth. "Didn't think so. This is Texas, sweetheart. Similar flavors? That's called inspiration. Sue me if you don't like it."

I walked out before I did something stupid.

The next month, my meat supplier called.

"Jade, we got a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"Prices are going up. 50% increase, starting next week."

I nearly dropped the phone. "50%? Are you kidding?"

"Costs are rising everywhere. If you don't like it, find another supplier."

I found out later he was Chuck's cousin.

The other suppliers in town suddenly had "inventory issues" or "scheduling conflicts." One told me straight up: "Sorry, Jade. Chuck's been a customer for twenty years. You've been here three months. Do the math."

So I paid the 50%. Used the crappiest cuts of meat. Watched my margins disappear.

Then came the social media posts.

"Don't eat at Jade's. Saw a roach in the bathroom."

"Overpriced and tasteless. Stick with Chuck's."

"A woman making BBQ? What's next, a vegan steakhouse?"

I knew they were fake. The accounts were brand new, the photos stolen from other restaurants. But customers didn't know that. And they didn't care.

My five daily customers became three. Then one. Then none.

Six months in, I was drowning.

Rent. Utilities. Loan payments. Supplier costs. Everything piling up, crushing me.

One night, I found my smoker destroyed. Someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. The metal was dented, the thermometer shattered, the door hanging off its hinges.

I called the police. A young officer came, took some photos, wrote in his notebook.

"Any idea who did this?"

"Chuck."

"You got proof?"

There it was again. "No."

"Then there's not much we can do." He closed his notebook. "File an insurance claim."

I didn't have insurance. Couldn't afford it.

I sat in the dark shop that night, surrounded by broken equipment and empty tables. Mom, I tried. I really tried.

But trying wasn't enough.

Every Thursday, I volunteered at the homeless camp on the edge of town. Brought leftover food, handed out water bottles. It was the one thing that made me feel human.

That's where I first saw Herman.

Skinny old man, maybe sixty, with yellowed teeth and a ratty jacket. He stood at the back of the line, watching me.

Not like the others watched me. They looked grateful, tired, hungry.

Herman looked curious.

I handed him a plate. He took it without breaking eye contact.

"Thanks," he said.

His voice gave me chills.

Three days later, he showed up at my shop.

I was closing up, wiping down the counter. The bell rang. I looked up.

Herman walked in like he owned the place.

"We're closed," I said.

"I know." He sat down at a table. "But I wanted to talk."

"About what?"

"About your troubles." He smiled, showing those yellow teeth. "I know you're struggling. I've seen what Chuck and his friends are doing to you."

My hand tightened on the rag. "How do you—"

"I pay attention." He leaned forward. "And I know something that could help."

"I'm not interested in—"

"A way to make your BBQ the best in Texas." His eyes locked onto mine. "A way to make people come back, again and again. A way to beat Chuck and everyone else."

I should've told him to leave. Should've called the police.

But I was desperate. And he knew it.

"What are you talking about?"

Herman's smile grew wider.

"Simple, really." He stood up, walked closer. "You have the raw material. You just need to know how to use it."