Chapter 36It was still pitch black when I woke to the aromatic smells of coffee and pumpkin scones in the early morning hours.
Adam Bellingham was at it again, emptying out his garage at an unreasonable hour. Bang, scrape, scuffle.
Philip was out cold, snoring in the back of his throat, and whispering things only a squirrel would understand. I crawled out from underneath his arm, padded barefoot across the room, and slipped out into the dimly lit hallway.
I detoured to the bathroom, and a few minutes later walked into the kitchen to the sound of my mother baking, whisking ingredients into a large aluminum-mixing bowl, her face powdered with flour. I stayed in the shadows and watched my agile eighty-three-year-old mother surprising me to this day. But I was also worried about her new bad
