He was almost as greedy for food as he was for standing too close to her. She saw him weigh whether to release her or not. Her hands tightened on the pitcher. A dousing with cold water might calm him down. And if not, a crack on the head with the heavy pitcher would be next. She was tempted to just get on with whacking him, but if she did, all the cherry pie in the world wouldn’t save her job, and there were those envelopes under the dresser. She needed to see what she had there. If they were nothing, she’d really prefer to return them to the safe rather than explain what they were doing out of it.

Mr. Hawkins’s grip tightened even more. Molly would have bruises tomorrow from the crushing grip. His fingernails dug into her arm until she wondered if he’d tear her dress and leave claw marks on her skin.

Then he released her so suddenly she stumbled back. Steadying herself, she nodded as if nothing untoward had happened and rushed out. If she had a chance, she’d get those envelopes yet today because they were the only way she was going to prove anything. She’d get them, and either they’d contain evidence she could somehow use, or she’d admit defeat, because she was getting out of here.

He didn’t follow her. Was he opening the safe?

Her heart thudding, she knew there was nothing she could do about it, not right now. She rushed to the kitchen, refilled the pitcher, then looked at it. Her excuse.

She had to take it back up.

At some point.

Her heart pounded with fear as she pictured herself in that room again. She certainly wasn’t going to do it while he was in there. But later. She only needed a moment. Whisk in, grab those envelopes, get out.

And maybe . . .

She sloshed the pitcher so the front of her dress was wet.

Then went to her room and changed into one she had with good-sized pockets. Hanging the wet dress from a peg in her room, Molly admitted she was so worried about Mr. Hawkins she wanted proof she’d gotten her dress wet, lest he check and catch her in a lie.

She heard him coming down the stairs. As she pulled on her dress, she looked at a red, swollen spot on her upper arm. Her skin was broken but not bleeding, all courtesy of Mr. Hawkins. She quickly finished dressing and left her room. As worried about Mr. Hawkins catching her in her bedroom as his.

She was in the kitchen measuring flour into a bowl when he came in. Silently, she swore she would put vinegar in the pie if he so much as touched her.

He stood in the doorway. She heard him but didn’t look up from her work. His presence there was like a looming vulture.