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It looked like I was interrupting something. Not hard to guess what. No one offered an introduction, which I mentally added to theyeah, they solda poison pieevidence I’d been collecting.

Abigail rubbed her hands together in front of her. “You must be Kasey.”

She might know about my run-in with Austin, but she might not. Asking if he’d been arrested for anything lately lacked tact, so I skipped that in favor of a boring response.

“I am.” I extended my hand and Abigail took it. My fingers swallowed hers. This close she looked even smaller. The rounded shoulders. The tension pulling around her eyes. Panicked. Grieving. Guilty. I wasn’t sure which description fit.

“Abigail stopped by to say hello,” Celia explained.

Yeah, sure she did.

What exactly was the proper etiquette for broaching the topic of a dead spouse to the woman who probably killed him? I had no idea. I went with a comment that sounded perfectly fine in my head. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

Maybe not so fine because at the mention of him a suffocating tightness gripped the room. Gram made a grumbling noise, which was never a good thing.

Abigail’s gaze darted from Celia to Gram. When Abigail finally did speak her voice sounded weak and small. “Thank you.”

I had a million questions and no ability to ask even one. Gram stared at me. I took that as a warning to be careful. That warning hadn’t worked for the first twenty-six years of my life. It wasn’t clear why she thought it would now.

“Did you come to get a pie?” Every word I said came packed with unintended questions and condemnation.

Abigail went back to the hand-wringing. “Uh... I... no.”

Yep. Nothing suspicious about that response.

Celia delivered one of those fake smiles she’d perfected over the years. “Abigail needed to get out for some fresh air, so we invited her here.”

That sounded like a friendly thing to do. Funny how Gram and Celia forgot to mention this special friendship before now. “Of course. Would you like—”

“I was just leaving.” Abigail stepped away from the counter.

She was this flaming ball of nerves. All anxious and unsure of herself. She shuffled her feet and shifted her balance from side to side. The constant movement made me feel bad for her and a little dizzy.

Since I wasn’t a total asshole I skipped all husband-related questions and any comment that strayed too close to death talk. This woman looked like she’d been through it. I refused to add to her pain. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation.”

A light red stained Abigail’s cheeks. “You didn’t. No.”

Her voice carried a hint of uncertainty mixed with an unnecessary apology. The right word to describe her finally hit me—“lost.” She looked as if she’d spent her entire life jumping to commands and waiting for people to tell her what to do.

I’d gotten a taste of her husband’s pointing and shouting. Dealing with rude and condescending behavior would take a toll. If the home version of him was as terrible as the public one, I’d continue not to mourn him or hope for him to have a peaceful rest because he didn’t deserve either.

“Okay, well...” Abigail looked down at her shoes and thento Gram. “I should be going. I promised Austin I’d make his lunch.”

That guy. He was old enough to make a sandwich. “I’ll walk you out.”

My comment made all activity in the room stop. Honestly, this was the least subtle crowd ever. If Gram and Celia were in the business of men poisoning they’d better work on their poker faces.

I motioned for Abigail to come with me before Gram or Celia could step in. We walked to the door in silence. A death march. That’s what it felt like.

Abigail stopped right before touching the doorknob. I waited for her to talk again because the hesitation felt like something. Not sure what, but something.

“They’re happy you’re here.” She whispered the comment.

It took a second for her words to sink in. Not a confession. More like a friendly reminder not to take Gram and Celia for granted, which solidified my belief about Gram and Celia having a personal relationship not only with the other woman with a surprise dead husband, Delilah Rhine, but with Abigail.

I needed to know how many more women had special pies delivered around the time of unexpected family deaths. I also needed to respond to Abigail because the way she looked at me with that vacant stare made me sad for her.

“I missed them.” That wasn’t a lie. I did. “Very much.”