Lips pursed, she eyes it. “Brownies?”
“Yes?” For reasons unknown, it comes out as a question.
“Hmm.” She takes the pan and shuffles down the hall. “Homemade?”
“I mean… I made it myself.” I follow, assuming that’s the right thing to do in this situation, the boys right behind me.
She comes to an abrupt stop, and I pull up short too. Poor Casen nearly trips on the rug but manages to catch himself.
“Out of a box, then, huh?”
I sigh. “Yes, it was Betty Crocker, if you must know.”
Someone rescue me from this nightmare.
She harrumphs. “This way.”
As we enter the kitchen, I have to admit that dinner does smell delicious.
In the kitchen, another woman sets a pair of oven mitts on the counter next to the range, and with a kind smile, smooths her hands down her apron. This must be Cynthia. “I hope this one isn’t bothering you too much?” She tosses a thumb at Thelma. “She likes to mess with people.”
Laughing, Thelma sets the pan of brownies on the counter. “Life’s too boring not to.” She grips my arm gently. “I hope I didn’t annoy you too much.”
I blink at her, head spinning. “I… huh?”
She goes on, undeterred by my general confusion. “There’s no denying I’m nosy, but I’m not mean. Bossy? Yes. Otherwise, how would I have gotten you over here to have dinner with us? You’re skin and bones, dear, but when we’re done with you, you’ll have some meat on you.”
Again, I’m at a loss for words. “Oh. Okay.”
It’s perhaps the lamest thing that could’ve left mymouth. In the past, I might’ve smarted back and told her how ridiculous she sounds, but frankly, I’m too exhausted to care. It’s my natural state these days. I’ve been weary for over a decade now, the curse of having to grow up too soon and too fast.
Cynthia motions toward the dining room adjacent to the kitchen. “Go sit. This will just be a few more minutes.”
I shoo the boys over to the table, but then turn back. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like any help?”
“No, dear.” She smiles, her eyes brimming with infinite kindness. It reminds me of my fifth-grade teacher. The woman who noticed I never brought a lunch and that my lunch account never had a balance. Who made sure I had something to eat every day. She always acted as if she’d packed too much. Back then, I took her actions at face value, secretly thrilled that this woman had such a bad habit of overpacking. It wasn’t until years later that I realized what an unexpectedly kind gesture it was. I wasn’t her kid or her problem, but she saw me. She saw beneath the façade I hid behind. The quiet girl who did her best not to be noticed. And when she looked at me, her eyes shone in the same way Cynthia’s do now. Not with pity, but with care.
“Is it just me, or are these old ladies weird?” Quinn hisses under his breath as I sit across from him.
“Shush,” I scold, giving him a light kick under the table.
I wouldn’t put it past Thelma to have some kind of supersonic hearing.
After a minute or two, Cynthia appears with a loaf pan. Thelma is behind her with a bowl of salad and dressing.
“Can I help bring things to the table?” I ask, already halfway out of the chair.
“No,” Cynthia says in a slightly scolding tone. “Stay where you are.”
The two of them quickly head back into the kitchen.
Casen whimpers. “I think we’ve been kidnapped.”
“Do you think they have a basement full of dead bodies?” Quinn adds.
I want to bang my head against the table, but I refrain. “Hush,” I snap.
I’m tired, and the last thing I want to do is have to wrangle my brothers while also working on the motives of these women. I already hate this fucking town.
