Muttering to herself, Grace was placing ingredients on the counter: a large package of ground beef, onions, a tub of butter, various bottles of sauces. She slid a chef’s knife out of the chopping block and used it to slice away the plastic wrapping around the meat.

Pat leaned against the counter and took a sip of her iced tea. It was obvious that Grace knew her way around a kitchen. She was sorting through items with the casual expertise of an experienced cook.

“Do you still work, back home in Houston?” Pat asked. “Or have you retired?”

Grace didn’t reply. Humming, she washed vegetables, opened a cabinet to retrieve spices.

“Grace?” Pat asked.

Suddenly, Grace whirled toward her clutching the chef’s knife. Her nostrils flared. Pat took a quick step backward, the edge of the counter stabbing into her lower back and giving her a small jolt of pain.

But there was danger in Grace’s gaze. Pat had seen that same menacing glint in the eyes of a student who had attempted to knife a teacher, right in the midst of her office.

Duchess leapt from the floor and scrambled to Pat’s side. She snarled and barked at Grace, seven pounds of fur and fury.

Grace’s gaze flitted from the dog, to Pat, and back to the dog. Her lips curled in disgust.

“I am busy preparing dinner for the family,” Grace said. “Please remove that foul, four-legged creature from my kitchen. Any animal that licks its own twat has no business in a space intended for food preparation and consumption.”

“Relax, it’s fine,” Pat said carefully. She slid away another step, nudging Duchess backward with her foot. “Is my presence distracting, too?”

“You can stay if you wish. Perhaps you would learn something about cooking by observing me.”

“Pardon me?” Pat blinked. “I’m a capable cook.”

“Hah! I beg to differ. You were going to serve leftovers—not very delectable ones, at that—to growing young children. Doubtless, you’re one of those grandmothers who deem it appropriate to ‘treat’ her grandchildren at fast-food restaurants, too.”

Pat was speechless.

“Why do the children call you Nana, anyway?” Grace asked.

“Well.” Pat struggled to find her voice. “They always have. Why wouldn’t they? They’ve known me since the day they were born.” Unlike you, who just showed up today, Pat thought, but didn’t say.

Grace’s face briefly contorted with an emotion that Pat interpreted as either frustration, or anger. She looked, to Pat, like a child teetering on the verge of a complete meltdown, and Pat braced herself for another outburst.

Then, just as quickly, it was over. Mumbling, Grace turned back to the ingredients she had assembled on the counter.

There is something dangerously wrong with this woman, Pat thought. I don’t know exactly what, but something isn’t right.