“Dr. Crumpler, go cook,” Mariam ordered as she flung her bag onto the sofa without room for argument. “A nanny should act like a nanny.”
I answered calmly, “All right,” and turned toward the kitchen.
Charlton suddenly spoke in a low voice as I stepped away. “Arizona, you and Mariam should get along from now on. As long as you obey, this home will always be yours.”
My steps halted, and my fingers stiffened.
We had both been orphaned. Every coin we had scraped together had bought that house, and in his mouth it became a place I could only temporarily occupy so long as I obeyed.
It was ridiculous.
It was absurd.
It was disgusting.
I said nothing and kept walking to the stove. Charlton seemed to want to explain. “I have had our son’s grave moved and rites performed. It will not bother him—”
“I am cooking,” I cut him off flatly.
Soon, Mariam hooked her arm through Charlton’s and dragged him into the bedroom with a laughing, possessive air. Their murmurs rose, then fell into the rhythm of the bed, breathy and intimate. Steam from the pot blurred my vision as I stared at the bubbling food, but my expression did not shift. I felt like a block of stone.