Page 130 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"You're burning it."

Gerald muttered from his place beside the salt cellar; his painted eyes fixed on the dark crust of the bread.

"She's browning it."

Frank corrected from the windowsill, his voice carrying that familiar, disappointed sigh.

"There's a structural difference, Gerald. One is heat. The other is neglect."

"Only to people who alphabetize their spice rack."

Gerald snapped.

"The moisture is leaving the center. It'll be dry."

"Let her eat."

I rolled my eyes faintly while smiling to myself.

I tucked one foot beneath the chair and reached automatically for the sleeve that wasn't there anymore. Funny how the body remembered comfort long after the mind decided it wasn't allowed to. I settled for wrapping both hands around my bowl instead, stealing warmth from the soup while pretending that was all I'd been looking for.

Something had felt… Wrong. Not dangerous. Not the sharp, clinical instinct that usually whispered before something terrible happened.

Just...

Off.

Like hanging a picture perfectly straight only to realize the whole house had been built crooked. The light filtering through the trees looked frozen somehow. Even the birds seemed quieter than usual, as though they were waiting for something I couldn't hear.

I ignored it. People who listened to every strange feeling would never get anything done.

I picked up my sandwich.

Crunch.

Warm butter melted across my tongue. Halfway through the bite, I stopped chewing.

A sound drifted through the open kitchen window. I held perfectly still.

Nothing.

Only branches rubbing together high above the roof. Wind. Probably. I swallowed.

Crunch.

A bark. Max.

A small smile found its way onto my face.

"Probably chasing squirrels again."

"He's terrible at it," Gerald observed immediately.

"He lacks stealth."

"He's enthusiastic," Frank defended.

"He's unemployed."