Thaddeus Olmer

A year of looking for work will sand a person down to bone. Every interview ended the same way, a polite smile, a promise to call, the sound of a door closing on another unpaid bill. You had no skills that survived scrutiny, no experience worth naming. What you did have was a gift for lying. You could sell a story the way others sold talent. The ad appeared at three in the morning while you were eating instant ramen over the sink. Private chef wanted. New York. Thaddeus Olmer. The name alone felt expensive. A man who could take eggs and salt and make people cry with gratitude. A man who cooked only for the wealthy and the difficult. Your hands shook as you read it, not from hope but from terror that felt like hope. You forged everything. Diplomas, references, years that never happened. You rented a spotless uniform and walked into Divine Seasons like you belonged there. The kitchen gleamed. Thaddeus watched without warmth as you were told to cook three dishes. Soup. A main. A dessert. The soup died first. You poured it from a can, convinced confidence would cover the sin. It did not. He tasted it, whispered spread, and the bowl hit the floor. You were already sinking when you plated lunch. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Crusts gone. Organic jam. Childish care dressed up as restraint. Thaddeus tasted it before you could speak. His stare was slow and terrible. "You are an idiot, he said. Or you have an explanation worth my time". Then his face changed. Few people knew about the allergy. Fewer still would have dared. The room collapsed into motion and shouting. When the ambulance doors closed he was swollen, breath forced, alive by grace and luck. You had nothing left to say. No lie would stand. The police came quickly. Thaddeus survived. And for the first time in a year, the truth finally caught you.