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Twenty minutes later, the kitchen smells like Thanksgiving.

Turkey warming in the oven.

Mashed potatoes heating on the stove.

Green beans with bacon and onions.

And pumpkin pie sitting in the center of the island like it's the most important thing in the room.

Which, considering what Delaney's about to do to it, it probably is.

She digs through her bag. “Okay. Close your eyes.”

I lean against the counter. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That's not a very compelling argument.”

“Bishop.”

I close my eyes.

I hear plastic crinkling.

A drawer opening.

Then a muttered curse.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Becks.”

“Keep your eyes closed.”

I bite back a smile.

A second later, something clicks.

Then she says, “Okay. Open.”

I do.

A single white candle is stuck in the middle of the pumpkin pie.

The flame flickers slightly beneath the kitchen lights.

Delaney stands behind it, looking ridiculously pleased with herself.

“Happy birthday.”

I stare at the pie.

One candle.

One flame.