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 restle
