Page 39 of His Daughter

I set the book back. But not before I flipped it over and noted the author's name on the spine. I was going to make up for the spit-up stain. That was a debt, and I always paid my debts.

She handed me the cloth. I finished wiping my hand and the edge of the book, which had caught a drop of the damage. She took the book from the changing table and held it against her chest.

"If you tell anyone about this book, I will make your life very difficult."

I held up my hands. "Your secret is safe with me."

I was in trouble. I was in so much trouble.

ELEVEN

THEA

The smoke alarm went off.

I grabbed the dish towel and fanned it under the detector while the garlic — my third attempt this week — blackened in the pan.

The oil spat. The kitchen filled with a haze that smelled like burnt ambition. Lena, propped in her bouncer on the counter, watched the chaos with wide blue eyes.

"It's fine," I told her. "This is part of the process."

She blew a bubble in response.

Mrs. Parrish appeared in the kitchen doorway. She stood there for a moment, taking in the scene — the smoking pan, the blackened garlic, and the open window I'd cracked to clear the haze. Her face didn't change.

She walked to the cabinet beside the stove, pulled out the fire extinguisher, and set it on the counter within arm's reach.

"Just in case," she said.

"I had it under control."

She looked at the pan. "I can see that."

I scraped the garlic into the trash and started over. My grandmother's Masala recipe was stored in my head. I didn't have the cards with me; they were still in the shoebox on my kitchen counter back home.

"Ms. Calloway." Mrs. Parrish was at my elbow. "Why don't I take over from here? You go sit with the baby."

I sighed. She was right. It was best to give up now before I burned down Declan’s apartment. I wiped my hands on the dish towel and surrendered the stove. Mrs. Parrish moved in. I watched as she assessed the damage, adjusted the heat, and somehow salvaged what was left of my mise en place without a single word of complaint.

When she was done by the stove, she picked up her notebook and turned to me.

"Groceries are delivered on Wednesdays," she said, turning a page. "I leave a list on the counter Monday evening. If you need anything specific, add it before Tuesday night. Dry cleaning is picked up and returned on Thursdays. And Tuesdays are my day off."

"Understood."

I typed it all into the notes app on my phone and then felt slightly absurd for needing a schedule to exist in someone else's apartment.

My phone lit up on the counter. A missed call from my mother. A text from Nina.

Nina

Call Mom. She says you're ignoring her.

Thea

I'm not ignoring her. I'm busy.

Nina