“You killed him with snickerdoodles?” Charlie gaped.
“I didn’t know he was allergic to cinnamon.”
“We can be together now.”
She traced a heart on the steamed glass. “After sufficient mourning.”
“I can wait.” He snuck a brownie off the plate.
She finished the dishes, dried her hands, and stepped over his body. “Walnuts, Charlie. You should have asked first.”
With the house locked up, she slid into the seat of the new truck. Hers, now. Just down the road, a young man with strong hands and an easy smile waited. He’d promised not to ask her to cook.