The first letter of each sentence spelled out *S-E-N-D*.

My heart thudded against my ribs so hard I was afraid the microphone in the ceiling would pick it up.

I started the next paragraph.

“Heat the oven thoroughly before placing the dish inside.”

“Use a silicone spatula to smooth the top.”

“Lightly season with additional pepper if desired.”

“Pour the mixture gently into the center of the pan.”

*H-E-L-P.*

I had spelled out *SEND HELP* in the first two paragraphs of the cooking instructions.

To a casual reader, it looked like standard culinary prose.

To Marcus, who read every line of my copy to format it for search engines, it would look like a glaring red light.

“You are typing very slowly,” Julian said.

“My hands are cold,” I said.

The kitchen was cold.

Julian had programmed the smart thermostat to drop the temperature to sixty degrees after five p.m.

He said it kept him alert.

I looked at the pantry door.

Behind the stack of French copper mixing bowls, inside the hollow base of the built-in spice rack, lay the ledger.