I felt my stomach drop. “Where’s Evelyn?”
“She’s scared,” he said softly. “Terrified she’ll cook something that could hurt me.”
For three long weeks, the Whitmore home was quiet. Evelyn sat in her chair staring out the window. Henry tried to maintain normalcy, but worry etched his every move.
Stepping In
I couldn’t stand seeing them like that. One Friday night, I pulled out every cooking skill I had learned from years of online tutorials. I made lemon-roasted chicken, creamy mashed potatoes with garlic butter, a fresh salad with homemade vinaigrette, and chocolate pie for dessert. I packed it all up and walked across the yard.
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