I tried not to outwardly react. I knew I’d said too much. This girl was far too perceptive. “Why would you think that?”
“Well,” she replied. “Right after I told you about what happened to me, you seemed to get upset.” She paused before she went on. “I thought maybe you might have known the guy who died and me bringing it up bothered you.”
“I told you I hadn’t heard about the accident.” In my mind I replayed everything from that night. She’d caught me off guard by bringing it all up, and then I started to feel sick… She must have thought that was because I knew more than I let on.
“I know you said that, but…” Her voice trailed away.
“You thought I lied.” I finished for her, slightly annoyed.
I didn’t really like being accused of lying. Even if I was.
“No,” she began, but Hobbs interrupted.
“Dinner is served,” he said. “If you should require anything else, please call.”
“Thank you, Hobbs,” I said, grateful he cut in when he did. He nodded and then went upstairs.
“I’m starving,” I said, getting up from the couch. “I hope you like chicken.”
“Yes, I do.” Piper agreed, following me into the kitchen where Hobbs had set out several dishes full of food on the island. I grabbed a plate and piled it high with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans.
Piper followed, her plate not looking nearly as full as mine. I casually glanced behind me where Hobbs had been frying the chicken to see if the oil was still out, but thankfully it wasn’t.
I went and sat down and tore into a piece of chicken. I made a sound of appreciation. “This is really good,” I said around a mouthful.
“What were you doing at the diner that night if you have such a wonderful cook here at home?”
I paused my chewing. She never gave up. “I was out shopping so I stopped by for a bite. It was late and I wasn’t going to come home and make him cook me something.”
“That was very thoughtful of you,” she said, forking up a bite of potatoes. I tried not to stare pointedly at the chicken on her plate.
“I’m a thoughtful kind of guy,” I said and took another huge bite.
“I wondered if maybe you came by the diner because you knew the man who died right outside,” she said, watching me.
I choked on the food as I swallowed and grabbed up a glass of water that was sitting nearby and took a drink. After several moments, I looked at her. “I don’t—didn’t—know the guy who died.”
We both lapsed into silence and I focused completely on eating. Then, because I really wanted to know, I said, “Why do you care so much about this guy anyway? He’s dead.”
When she didn’t answer, I looked up. At the same moment, her fork clattered onto her plate and she looked at me. Her breaths were coming in short gasps.
“Peanuts,” she wheezed. “I’m allergic to peanuts.”
As I stared at her, red welts began to appear on her cheeks and neck. She pushed her chair away from the island and tried to stand, but she stumbled and caught herself on the counter. I reached out to steady her.
“Piper? What’s going on? Are you okay?” I said, trying to sound concerned, realizing it wasn’t hard to do.
She tried to say something, but I couldn’t understand her words. I clutched her arm and turned her to face me and saw that her lips and tongue were swelling rapidly. She made a motion with her arm, toward the front door.
“Ppputthhhh,” she said.
“What?”
She said it again. I grabbed my phone off the counter. “I’m calling 9-1-1.” I knew by the time they got here she’d be dead.
“Nnnoo.” She pointed again toward the front hallway. “Pppuuthhh.”
“You want your purse?” I said, finally understanding.
