She was shaky from low blood sugar, and she couldn’t face another stale cracked-wheat cracker, couldn’t even look at the last bit of gooey red jam in the bottom of the jar; couldn’t choke down another mug of the gray instant hot chocolate with the tiny marshmallows floating on the top. Poppy had agreed to bring Etta some food tomorrow, but tomorrow was an eternity away. Etta had waited until after nine o’clock, when the kitchen, dining room, and great room were usually deserted. No one would hear Etta sneak into the kitchen. But Etta froze at the corner where the corridor turned toward the dining room. The accented voice was loud and instantly recognizable. Isabella Peña. Etta flattened against the wall, and poked her head around the corner. The lights of the great room were ablaze: a yellow rectangle at the end of the long hallway. Etta glanced behind her into the shadows. She couldn’t turn back now. She was dreaming of cheese—Swiss, Muenster, Brie, asiago, Gouda, it didn’t matter.
What do You think about The Garden Of Dead Dreams?
