“You walked all the way to Bellweather Avenue?”
“We were careful.”
“Caleb.”
“We needed food.”
Her eyes closed.
That was worse than being yelled at.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For letting things get that bad.”
“You were sick.”
“I’m still supposed to take care of you.”
“You do.”
Her eyes filled.
I hated seeing that.
So I said the first thing that came into my mind.
“Arthur made us soup.”
Grace opened her eyes.
“Arthur?”
Mr. Whitmore shifted beside the doorway.
Grace finally looked directly at him.
Their eyes met.
Something changed in the room.
It was so small that Annie probably didn’t notice.
But I did.
Grace knew him.
Or knew of him.
The color faded slightly from her face.
Arthur noticed too.
“Grace Foster,” he said.
She swallowed.
“Mr. Whitmore.”
I looked from one to the other.
“You know him.”
“No,” Grace said too quickly.
