Chapter 14 The Picture-perfect Lie
- The next morning was a Thursday.
- I woke up to the smell of buttermilk biscuits and sausage gravy, thick and rich and unmistakably Southern—my mother’s old Sunday recipe. For a second, I didn’t move. I just lay there, blinking at the ceiling, confused by the warmth in the air, the scent curling up the stairs like an invitation I didn’t ask for.
- I had overslept.