They stood there, wide-eyed, looking guilty like kids caught raiding the cookie jar. But their admission wasn't just guilt—it was something deeper, like they knew this request was loaded with more than what they were letting on.
"And why," she asked, voice dripping with exhaustion and suspicion, "are you telling me this? Isn't the chef here? Ask her to make you something."
Ray's eyes flickered, and he stumbled over his words like a man who knew he was about to walk into a trap. "The chef is... on leave," he said, his voice trailing off at the end, as if hoping she wouldn't press any further.
Esme blinked, her tired brain struggling to process what she just heard. "What?" she asked, frowning. "Then ask one of the other chefs. There are at least four in this house, last I checked."
