Page 15 of Sleeping with the Enemy

Her mothers exchanged another look, quicker this time.

“What?” Miller asked again.

“Nothing.” Harper stood to get dessert. “I made apple pie.”

“You made pie? It’s not even a holiday.”

“Keep up, Miller. It’s the first nice weekend of spring.”

The pie was perfect—Harper’s pie always was—and the conversation shifted to lighter topics: neighborhood gossip, Miller’s running schedule, whether the Hendersons down the street were ever going to finish their renovation. The evening warmed the dining room, golden light slanting through the windows, and Miller felt the last of the week’s tension unwind.

This is what Sunday dinners were for, this grounding reminder that no matter how demanding work became, she had a place where she belonged unconditionally.

After dessert, Miller started gathering the plates.

“Leave those,” Nadia said. “I’ll get them later.”

“I don’t mind.” Miller stacked the dishes, falling into the rhythm. “You cooked—well, Harper cooked—so I can clean.”

“You’re our guest.”

“I’m your daughter. That’s not the same thing.”

Nadia smiled and handed her the serving bowl. “Fine, but I’m supervising.”

They moved to the kitchen, settling into the familiar dance of cleaning. Miller washed, Nadia dried, and Harper's voice drifted in from the living room where she'd retreated with the newspaper and her reading glasses.

“The article about the Shepry divorce had a photo of her. Astoria,” Nadia said casually.

Miller focused on scrubbing a particularly stubborn spot. “Oh?”

“She looked exhausted. All that buttoned-up composure, but her eyes…” Nadia set a plate in the cabinet. “I’ve seen that look before in my clients back when I was working. The ones just trying to hold everything together with whatever scrap of willpower they had left.”

Miller thought about Astoria in the elevator, the rigid set of her shoulders, the determined way she'd kept her gaze fixed on the doors. The way she'd acknowledged Miller at the courthouse with a nod that was perfectly polite and absolutely nothing else.

“It’s not my job to feel sorry for her,” Miller said. “She’s the opposing party.”

“I didn’t say you should feel sorry for her.” Nadia handed her another plate to wash. “I just said I noticed something, that’s all.”

They finished the dishes in comfortable silence.

“You’re sure you don’t want to take some pie home?” Harper held up a foil-wrapped plate, already knowing the answer.

“You ask me this every week.” Miller took the offered plate. “And every week, I say yes.”

“Just making sure you’re paying attention.” Harper pulled her into a solid hug, the kind that said everything her words didn’t. “Kick ass this week, kid.”

“Planning on it.”

Nadia walked her to the door, the evening air cool but pleasant after the warmth of the house. The streetlights were just flickering on, casting soft pools of light along the familiar street.

“It’s good to see you excited about work again," Nadia said, leaning against the doorframe.

Miller paused, keys in hand. “What do you mean?”

“The last few months, you seemed like you were just going through the motions. You were competent as always, but”—Nadia furrowed her brow while searching for the right word—”you were more distant. This case has you engaged in a way I haven’t seen in you in a while.”

Miller considered that. She hadn't realized it was visible, but her mother wasn't wrong. The routine cases had become exactly that: routine. She could handle them in her sleep, and sometimes it felt like she was.