*Shelby*
I’d just slid the baking tray, with two salmon filets and vegetables, into the oven when I heard the front door open. It abruptly closed with a shutter that echoed through the house.
“Michael?” I called down the hallway.
“It’s me, Shelby,” he called back, and my heartbeat slowed at the sound of his voice.
“You’re just in time. I just put dinner in the oven, and it should be ready soon,” I said as Michael walked into the kitchen.
I looked up to see him wearing a very serious expression on his face. The corners of his mouth were tugged down in concern, and there was a strange expression in his eyes—a mix of sadness and anger.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” I asked, my heartbeat speeding up again. “Is Bruce okay? Lucille?”
“Everyone’s fine. I just had a very unpleasant conversation is all,” Michael said, sliding onto one of the barstools.
“With who?” I asked, picking up and folding a dish towel with nervous anticipation.
