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“Smart plan.” She gestures toward the bowl and holds out a fork to me. “Wanna prove your sexy arm muscles are for more than making panties drop and beat those eggs for me?”
“Only panties I want to see on the floor are yours,” I scoff and flex my arm in front of her face, then grab the fork.
“So, do you ever find any real talent with amateur nights?”
“Sometimes.” I glance over my shoulder at her. “More often than not, girls realize it’s not as glamorous as they thought it would be. Reality kills the fantasy.”
“No kidding. You think it’s all hot business guys in suits waving hundred-dollar bills and instead you’re showing your bits to coax creepy old men into handing over their measly singles.”
I choke on a laugh. “More or less. Although, as far as the creep factor, the suits are usually the worst.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” She nudges my shoulder. “That looks good. Thank you.”
“Anytime.” I lift my sleeve and slap my bicep again. “Although, I’m disappointed, I see no panties on the floor.”
She shakes with laughter while she twists the knobs on her stove. Blue flames shoot to life underneath a long, cast-iron griddle in the center. She tosses the ham steaks on there and heats up a round cast-iron pan on another burner. “I saw this somewhere online the other day and I haven’t tried it yet, so don’t get too excited.”
“I don’t think you can mess up eggs and ham.”
“You never know.”
While she concentrates on recreating from memory whatever recipe she saw, my gaze drops to the stack of mail she dropped on the counter earlier.
One official-looking envelope catches my eye and I do a double take.
NYS Department of Corrections and Community Supervision
What the fuck?
All the easy warmth of our cozy kitchen moment evaporates. Red rage dots my vision. Did the fucker who killed her parents write to her again? I squint at the envelope, trying to make out any useful details—like a prisoner’s ID number in the upper left corner. Nothing.
It looks official. Is it a letter to warn her the guy’s getting released? I’ll hunt him down and fucking end him if he’s ever set free.
“What’s with the letter from the Department of Corrections?” I ask, aiming for a disinterested tone.
“What?” She glances over at the pile, then back to the stove. “Oh. Probably nothing.”
Something about her too-casual answer doesn’t ring true. “Em?”
Distracted, she attempts to flip the round disk of eggs in the pan, but it ends up flopping in half instead. “Dammit,” she mutters, using two spatulas to try to situate the omelet again.
She turns the flame on the stove down and paces to the end of the counter. After shooting a quick glance my way, she snatches up the envelope and rips into it.
Inside appears to be several sheets of paper. She yanks them out and runs her gaze over the top sheet. I can’t read any of it from here, but it looks typed, not handwritten.
“He’s not getting out, is he?” I ask, straining with the need to do something, anything to protect her.
“No,” she says absently, eyes still scanning the letter. “Nothing like that.”
“Did he get disciplined for contacting you?” As far as I’m concerned, his facility should’ve flagged that letter and never sent it to Emily.
She’s silent and won’t meet my eyes.
Dread rolls in my stomach. Why won’t she just tell me what it is?
“Emily?” I prompt again.
“You’re not going to like it.” She lifts her chin. “But you’re not talking me out of it, either.”
Don’t like the sound of that. “Not feeling reassured.”
She blows out another breath and quickly scans the pages again.
I’m losing patience. “Emily,” I say in a sharp enough tone to get her attention. “What’s going on?”
She tucks the pages back into the envelope, folds it in thirds and shoves it in her back pocket. What? Is she afraid I’m going to steal it from her?
“Let me get that before it burns.” She points to the stove. “Will you set out some plates?”
I flick the burner off and move the pan to a cooler location on the stove top.
“No.” I grind out the word slowly. “I want you to tell me what that letter’s about.”
“Well, I’m hungry.” She reaches up into a cabinet and pulls out two plates. I’m so frustrated and worried, I can’t even appreciate her shirt riding up far enough to bare a sliver of her stomach.
How did our morning go south so fast?
Hanging onto my patience by a thread, I wait for her to plate the ham steaks and fiddle with the eggs. When I can’t stand the waiting, I gather ice, pour water, and slice a lemon into wedges.
By the time we’re both seated at the table, I’ve lost my appetite.
She takes a deep breath and lets it out fast. “I wrote to the Superintendent to find out what the procedure is for visiting an inmate.”
