I crossed the kitchen in two strides and swept her into my arms.
“Why are you in here cleaning, baby?”
Her eyes flicked past my shoulder, toward the hallway.
“Grandma said I have to help because I’m not little like them.”
I looked at the sink.
Then at the living room.
Then at my mother, who had just walked in carrying a serving tray.
Eleanor Whitlock did not look ashamed.
She looked irritated.
“Owen, don’t start,” she said. “She was helping. Children need to learn manners.”
Continue on the next page:
