Chapter 4
Aunt Mae's Kitchen
Over sweet tea, Aunt Mae shares local ghost lore, including a vague warning about a personal shadow that follows certain families. Amy listens uneasily.
The air in Aunt Mae’s kitchen was thick with the scent of butter and brown sugar, a comforting blanket that wrapped around me the moment I stepped through the back door. The screen door whined on its hinges, a familiar sound that had punctuated my childhood summers, and then slapped shut behind me, sealing off the world outside.
Aunt Mae was already at the stove, her back to me, a faded floral apron tied around her waist. A pot of something savory simmered on the back burner, but it was the tall glass pitcher sweating on the counter that held my attention. Sweet tea. The nectar of the South, the cure for all ills, the lubricant for all secrets.
“You’re late, child,” she said without turning around. Her voice was a low, molasses drawl, aged by years and stories, but still carrying the sharp edge of a woman who missed nothing.
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