DEBORAH'S POV
I should have felt better being home.
But I didn't.
Every part of me still shook, like my nerves hadn't caught up with my body. I kept thinking of that photo—the one Imogen handed to me with that smug, careful smile. The one thing I thought I had buried in a deep enough grave. But it always comes back, doesn't it? Rotting things never stay buried.
I tried to distract myself. I told the housekeeper I would handle dinner tonight. Something normal. Something domestic. The turkey was in the oven, and I stood in front of it for what felt like hours, watching it brown too fast, too dark. Smoke curled up, making my eyes sting.
"Ma'am," the housekeeper said gently, pulling the oven door open and turning off the heat. "You almost burned it. Are you alright?"
I blinked. "I'm fine."
She gave me a look that said she didn't believe that. "Maybe you should go wash up. I'll take care of the rest."
