Layers of the Unknown

Day 11 of Sinister Suppers

Continued from Day 10-

LAYERS OF THE UNKNOWN

The lawyer’s number burned a hole in my hand.

I’d never called a lawyer before. I’d never needed to. I was a food critic, for God’s sake—reviewing cassoulet, coq au vin, soufflés that made grown men weep with joy.

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But now—files missing, the DA looking at me like I was a name on a case file instead of a human being.

I pressed the phone to my ear, stomach in knots. My sister watched from the other side of the room, eyes wide, her hand trembling on the loaf of bread we’d just baked.

A voice answered—calm, too calm. I stumbled over my name, said it again like maybe that would make it make sense.

“I’m just a writer,” I said, voice trembling. “A food critic. I don’t know why they’re looking at me.”

I could hear him shuffling papers. “What’s the DA’s office saying exactly?”

I swallowed hard, throat tight. “They’re talking about files that went missing—something about a health inspection report I requested. I wrote a review once—God, that was over a year ago—about a chef who was involved in a lawsuit. He was trying to bury the place in bad press. I called it like I saw it.”

“And now the file’s gone,” the lawyer said, his tone low but practiced—like he’d explained this too many times before.

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Your name was the last one on the request log,” he said. “That’s enough for the DA’s office to wonder if you knew something—or worse, if you had something to hide.”

My pulse spiked. “I’m just a critic. I write about food, not crime.”

His sigh sounded rehearsed. “I know. Detective Caldwell called me earlier. We’re old friends.”

That made me freeze. “You talk to him about me?”

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“He asked me to look out for you,” he said. “But whether that means helping you or helping the investigation—that’s a two-sided coin.”

My stomach dropped. “So which side are you on?”

Silence. “That depends on you,” he said finally. “Bring everything you have on that review—notes, emails. Anything that might clear your name.”

His voice softened, but it felt like a trap. “And lock your doors tonight. Sometimes the smallest thread unravels the whole thing. You don’t want to be that thread.”

He hung up, leaving me with a dial tone that sounded like the click of a lock.

I looked at my sister, eyes brimming. “He’s friends with Caldwell,” I whispered. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

She reached for me, her hand warm and trembling. “Then let’s make dinner,” she said. “Lasagna, like Mom used to make. We need something that reminds us we’re still us.”

I blinked. “Now?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Now.”

And so we did—layer by layer, pasta and sauce and cheese—a reminder that even in the darkest nights, something warm and strong could hold us together.

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Mom’s Lasagna (Layers of Strength)

1 pound ground beef

1 pound Italian sausage

1 small onion, diced

3 cloves garlic, minced

2 (24-ounce) jars of marinara sauce (or 2 large cans of crushed tomatoes)

1-2 teaspoons sugar (to taste)

1 teaspoon dried basil

1 teaspoon dried oregano

Salt and pepper, to taste

Lasagna noodles (enough to line each layer in the pan)

15 ounces ricotta cheese

1 egg

2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese

½ cup grated Parmesan cheese

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 375°F.

2. In a large skillet, cook the ground beef and Italian sausage with diced onion until browned. Add garlic and cook for 1 more minute. Drain excess fat.

3. Stir in marinara sauce or crushed tomatoes, sugar, basil, oregano, salt, and pepper. Simmer 10-15 minutes to blend the flavors.

4. Meanwhile, cook the lasagna noodles according to package directions. Drain and set aside.

5. In a small bowl, mix the ricotta cheese with the egg until combined.

6. In a 9x13-inch baking dish, spread a thin layer of meat sauce. Layer noodles to cover the sauce, then top with ricotta mixture, mozzarella, and more meat sauce. Repeat layers until the pan is full, ending with sauce and mozzarella.

7. Sprinkle Parmesan on top.

8. Cover with foil and bake for 45 minutes. Remove foil and bake an additional 10 minutes, until bubbly and golden.

9. Let rest 10 minutes before slicing—a reminder that even in the darkest times, something warm and strong can hold us together.