The kitchen was immaculate.
Too immaculate.
The counters gleamed. The sink was empty. The dish towels were folded with military precision on the counter, something that had never happened in the history of this house. But the dishwasher was running, its low hum filling the space, and I could see a faint water spot on the floor near the sink that someone had missed.
“You have a beautiful kitchen,” Ms. Rodriguez said, opening a cabinet.
She’s checking the cabinets.
She’s actually checking to see if we have food.
Inside were neatly organized rows of dishes, glasses, and—Is that a mixing bowl on the top shelf? Why is there a mixing bowl with the glasses?
What the hell did they do in here?
“We love to cook,” Cate said, her voice climbing higher. “Gabriel and I—we cook together. Family meals. Very nutritious. Lots of vegetables. And protein. Balanced meals. The food pyramid. We follow it. Religiously. Well, not religiously, because we’re not religious about food; we’re just—we’re very committed to nutrition. And the pyramid. The nutritional pyramid. Which is actually more of a plate now, I think? My plate? Is that still a thing?”
My jaw ticked.
Ms. Rodriguez closed the cabinet and made another note.
What the hell is she writing?
“Wife has concerning relationship with USDA dietary guidelines?”
“And Megan eats well?” Ms. Rodriguez asked.
“Very well,” I said, my voice steady, controlled. “She’s not a picky eater. Cate has been excellent about introducing her to a variety of foods.”
“I make her try one bite of everything!” Cate added. “The one-bite rule. It’s very effective. Scientifically proven. Probably. I haven’t actually read the studies, but it seems like something that would be studied. Food exposure. Palate development. Very important for children.”
Cate.
Breathe.
I squeezed her side gently, a silent message:You’re spiraling.
She took a breath, nodded slightly.
“Let’s see the rest of the house,” Ms. Rodriguez suggested.
We moved through the dining room where the table was suspiciously clear of everything, including the centerpiece that usually sat there, and toward the stairs.
That was when I saw it.
Shoved hastily into the coat closet, the door not quite closed: the corner of a bedsheet. Purple, with butterflies.
The teepee.
They shoved the teepee into the coat closet.
I shifted slightly, positioning myself between Ms. Rodriguez and the closet, and shot a look at Julien.
He saw it. His eyes widened fractionally, then he moved casually toward the closet, leaning against the wall next to it like he’d been planning to stand there all along.
Smooth.
For a neurologist.
