I looked rich. I had that polished persona that wealthy people acquire through years of professional hair, clothing, and makeup. Julia had even done my nails, giving them a demure set of pink nails tipped in white. Nothing about me was unpolished, aggressive, or threatening in any way.
I could be a lifestyle magazine model. Or a baking celebrity. Or a social media personality who focused on raising money for something completely noncontroversial, like a children’s hospital or no-kill animal shelters. Puppies and kittens and kids. Who didn’t love ’em?
bakingChet settled into the third chair facing us, exactly like the two Abby and I were sitting in, and arranged his clothing.
“You look like a peacock,” Abby said. “I love that color.”
“Thank you, dear. I love this one myself. But I still
