Chapter 20: The House or Dillard

Hattie's POV

I stopped in front of him on the cold grass and held the shears out, handle first.

"Keep these today," I said.

Rafe looked at my mother's silver shears, and then at me.

"Why?"

"Because I'm about to walk into a room with a lot of people who want them, and I want them kept safe."

"Hattie, what happened last night?"

"I'll tell you at eight-thirty. Stand at the front of the main kitchen."

"Is it the list?"

"It's not the list."

He took the shears in both hands, carefully.

"Okay," he said. "Eight-thirty."

I walked back to my house, put on a clean jacket, and drove to school.

The main kitchen was full by eight twenty-five.

The cohort stood in their rows, Bridget in the second one with her arms crossed.

Chef was at the pass beside a man in a gray wool coat, who looked forty-five and tired and kind, and was the Cleveland chef.

Delaney's mother stood a little behind Chef with Delaney at her shoulder.

Delaney's hair was pinned flat, and her knuckles were white around the strap of her bag.

Rafe came in last and stood at the front, as I had told him, with my mother's shears in his belt under his apron.

I stepped out of the line.

"Ma'am," I said. "You asked me to answer last night. I'm answering here."

She tilted her head.

"Hattie. Perhaps we should do this privately."

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