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scratched my head, one corner of my lips pulled up in an attempt at a smile. “I sort of … went off on him for being a total asshat.”
    Paul’s pudgy face appeared above the cubicle wall that separated our workstations, his gray eyes popped open wide. “Oh, you’re so dead, Eva.”
    “Yeah.” I rubbed the back of my aching neck and let my head fall back. “I know.”
    By some miracle, four thirty rolled around with no call from either security or the Big Cheese. I went home for the weekend, clinging to a small hope that Mr. Hathaway might have a shred of humanity left in his twisted self somewhere. That, or he planned to make a big show of my exit when Cameron returned. Knowing what I had learned about Mr. Hathaway, the latter seemed like the more likely scenario.

    * * * *

    I knocked on my parents’ door at five thirty sharp on Sunday night, bearing a loaf of ciabatta bread from the bakery near work and a bottle of Mom’s favorite sparkling water.
    Dad opened the door, looked me up and down as if he didn’t recognize me, and grunted some sort of Neanderthal greeting. He’d been doing that for thirty years, and it never became any more amusing. He stepped out of the way so I could walk past his broad shoulders.
    “Nice to see you too, Dad.” I shrugged out of my coat and hung it by the door. The wonderful aroma of roast chicken greeted me, drawing me toward the warmth of the kitchen where Mom would be.
    Dad, wearing his typical uniform of green work pants and plaid shirt, grunted some more and sat in his easy chair by the fireplace, picked up his paper, and erected a wall of newsprint between us. A lump formed in my throat and threatened to choke me. No matter how many times he ignored me, I never got used to it.
    “Evangeline!” Mom took the bread and water from me and set them on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. She threw her slender arms around me and held tight for a moment before pushing me out to arm’s length. “Oh, Eva dear, you look so tired.” Her fine eyebrows fell over loving brown eyes. She touched my forehead with the backs of her cold fingers. “Are you sick, sweetheart?”
    I stepped away and manufactured a smile that wouldn’t have fooled a monkey. “No, I’ve had a hard time sleeping the last couple of nights, that’s all.”
    “Why? Is everything all right?” She tamed a stray lock of her dark chocolate hair by winding it around her finger and tucking it behind her ear.
    I took Mom’s hand and led her into the kitchen. “Everything’s fine. I just have a—I guess you could call it a puzzle I’m trying to solve at work and it’s on my mind.”
    That and I’d woken up in the middle of the night after dreaming about ripping the shirt off of Mr. Hathaway to get a better look at those abs of his and tangled my fingers into his hair as I searched for his tonsils with my tongue. The effects of the imagery still zinged through my core better than a touch to an electric fence.
    Disgust with myself had overruled the throbbing ache between my legs. Stupid subconscious mind. How could I think those pornographic thoughts about him, no matter how good-looking he was? It was just sick.
    The three of us sat in the dining room for supper, Mom’s usual mammoth feast spread before us. Garlic mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, chicken browned to perfection yet still moist and succulent, complete with stuffing. She never did anything halfway. Every time I came over, it was like Christmas dinner all over again. A centerpiece of lilies and baby’s breath adorned the center of it all, its sweet tangy scent mingling with the delicious air.
    Mom heaped potatoes onto my plate with a genuine smile. Some people enjoyed gardening or photography or scrapbooking. Mom enjoyed cooking and entertaining. It made her come alive. “So tell us what’s been happening at Hathaway’s,” she said.
    His name made me shift in my seat and sent a strange sensation crawling down my