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Jamie’s eyes narrowed.
“Really?”
“Really,” I said. “No pressure. No expectations. Just a place where you don’t have to carry everything alone.”
Jamie let out a breath, rubbing at his eyes quickly before nodding.
“Okay. Thanks, Mr. Albert.”
In a blink, I was alone, staring at the empty desk where a frightened boy just confessed his most terrifying secret.
Chapter thirteen
Elliot
Ishouldhaveknownbetter than to accept a dinner invitation from Mrs. Henderson without asking what she was serving first, because now, I was sitting at her worn kitchen table staring down at a plate of something that looked like mashed potatoes that had lost a fight.
I poked at it cautiously with my fork. “Uh . . . Mrs. H? What exactly are we eating?”
She plopped into the chair across from me, beaming with entirely too much pride. “Rumbledethumps.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”
She snorted. “Don’t look at me like that, Elliot. It’s arealdish. Potatoes, cabbage, onions, cheese—mashed up and baked together. A proper Scottish meal.”
I picked up a forkful, giving it a suspicious look. “And you eat this willingly?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be a baby. It’s good for you. Sticks to your ribs.”
I sighed. “Mrs. H, I carry power lines for a living. I have plenty sticking to my ribs.”
She scoffed. “Not enough. You could use a few more pounds. What happens if you fall off one of those poles? You need some cushion.”
I huffed a laugh, finally taking a bite.
Okay . . . It wasn’t bad.
Actually, it was good.
Mrs. H smirked. “Told you.”
I pointed my fork at her. “I will give you this one.”
“You’d better. I slaved over this.”
I gave her a look. “It’s mashed potatoes with cabbage. You mashed, and you baked. I don’t think we can call it ‘slaving.’”
She scoffed. “You ungrateful little sh—”
I held up a hand. “I take it back. You worked so hard. This is a culinary masterpiece.”
She sniffed. “Damn right, it is.”
I chuckled, shaking my head.
For a few minutes, we ate in peace, the familiar sounds of her ancient kitchen filling the space—the quiet hum of the fridge, the occasional clink of utensils against plates.
As many times as I’d been inside Mrs. H’s house, I’d never really taken the time to look around the place. Her kitchen was a shrine to her Scottish roots, a cluttered, lived-in space that smelled of butter, tea, and a lifetime of stubborn traditions. The walls were a faded, warm yellow, decorated with a collection of old tin signs and framed Scottish proverbs, the kind that seemed wisdom filled and vaguely threatening at the same time. A faded tartan tea towel hung from the handle of the oven, and a cast iron skillet sat permanently on the stovetop.