The freezer had been stocked with homemade meals.
“Don’t worry about Claire,” Diane had told him over the phone. “I’ll treat her like my own daughter.”
Brooke had made the same promise.
“You focus on finishing your assignment,” she said. “We’ve got everything under control.”
Ethan had trusted them completely.
That trust disappeared the moment he stepped into the kitchen.
Claire sat beneath the weak yellow light wearing an old pink cardigan over a nursing tank top. Her dark hair was tangled, her lips were dry, and her eyes looked sunken from exhaustion.
The package of noodles was open on the table, its contents scattered across the scratched wood.
A glass of water stood beside her.
There was no broth.
No fruit.
No medicine.
No proper meal.
“Claire?”
Her head snapped up.
