I’d wanted for months.
Later that week, I decided to bake oatmeal cookies.
I opened the lower cabinet where my heavy stand mixer always sat.
Empty.
I checked the pantry anyway, then noticed a faint scuff near the entrance.
David had a spare key for emergencies.
Apparently, Rachel considered a school bake sale an emergency.
I didn’t call her.
I could already predict the argument: she only borrowed it, meant to return it, and I was making too much of nothing.
Instead, I called a locksmith.
Two hours later, Tom
