She trails off. Starts pulling things out. Flour. Sugar. The brown sugar, the white sugar. Butter. I got four pounds because I didn’t know how much she’d need. Chocolate chips, all four kinds. The pecans, the walnuts.
She stops at the nuts. Looks at them, then at me.
“You got two kinds of nuts.”
“I like nuts in my cookies,” I say, before I can think better of it. “Pecans or walnuts. Either works.”
Something shifts in her face. The flatness cracks, just a little, and underneath it is something that looks almost like warmth.
“Okay,” she says quietly.
I help her put everything away. Show her how the oven works because the controls are older and slightly confusing. Point out where the baking sheets fit in the lower cabinet, where the mixing bowls can go.
She’s different now. Still not okay, not even close to okay, but present in a way she wasn’t an hour ago. Her hands have stoppedshaking. She’s touching the supplies, running her fingers over the bag of flour, the container of brown sugar.
“Thank you,” she says when everything’s organized. “Really. This is... this was really nice.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me.”
We’re standing close in her small kitchen. Close enough that I’m aware of every inch of space between us. Close enough that I notice her breath catch when our hands both reach for the mixing bowl. Close enough that I’m having thoughts I absolutely should not be having about a witness I’m supposed to be protecting.
Too close. Way too close.
I step back. Clear my throat.
“I’ll check in tomorrow,” I say. “Make sure you’re settling in okay.”
She nods. Walks me to the door.
When I glance back from the hallway, she’s already at the counter. Pulling out ingredients, her hands steady. There’s something almost graceful about the way she moves now, like she’s remembering who she used to be. I watch for longer than I should, tracking the line of her shoulders, the way her hair falls forward when she leans over the counter. Then I force myself to close the door.
I stand there for a moment, listening to the sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing. The soft thunk of a bag of flour being set on the counter.
She’s going to bake.
Tonight, alone in that apartment, she’s going to turn all those supplies into something. Turn her grief into butter and sugar, the way she’s probably been doing her whole life.
And tomorrow I’ll come back and see what she’s made.
I take the stairs slowly. Get in my car. Sit there, watching the light in her window.
Forty-three witnesses.
Not one of them has made me want to stay.
Not one of them has made me stand in a grocery store for forty-five minutes agonizing over flour and chocolate chips because I couldn’t bear the thought of her being disappointed.
I start the car. Pull out of the parking lot. Drive back to my hotel through streets I don’t bother memorizing because I’ll only be here another week.
Another week. And then I’ll leave, and she’ll be Beth Taylor, and this will be just another relocation in a notebook full of names.
That’s how it works. That’s how it has to work.
I tell myself that all the way back to the hotel.
I almost believe it.
