“I understand that.”
Damon softened.
“What food?”
“Anything.”
Renee stepped forward.
“That is absolutely not true.”
Noah continued.
“Snacks.”
Damon nodded slowly.
“What else?”
“Breakfast sometimes.”
Renee scoffed.
“You sleep until eleven on Saturdays and then claim I didn’t feed you breakfast.”
Noah turned.
“That happened once!”
Damon looked at Ava.
The girl had become very quiet.
He felt her fingers rubbing the collar of his dress shirt.
“What about you?”
She looked at him.
“Do you get hungry?”
Ava nodded.
“How often?”
Renee interrupted.
“Damon.”
He ignored her.
Ava shrugged.
“When you’re gone.”
The answer hit him hard.
He turned toward the refrigerator.
A large stainless-steel unit occupied nearly an entire kitchen wall.
Damon walked toward it.
Renee followed.
“What are you doing?”
He opened the left door.
Cold air washed over him.
He stared.
The refrigerator was full.
Not casually full.
Organized.
Rows of sealed glass containers sat on two shelves.
Each container had a printed label from Maison Table, the private meal-preparation company Damon paid nearly four thousand dollars a month to deliver weekday meals while he traveled.
Monday.
Tuesday.
Wednesday.
Thursday.
It was Thursday evening.
Almost everything was still there.
Damon reached for a container.
CHICKEN RICE BOWL — NOAH.
Seal intact.
Another.
TURKEY PASTA — AVA.
Seal intact.
Wednesday lunch.
Still sealed.
Thursday snack box.
Still sealed.
Fruit cups.
Cheese.
Yogurt.
Sandwiches.
Fresh vegetables.
Two containers intended for school lunches.
Untouched.
His hand went still.
“Noah.”
The boy appeared behind him.
“Did you eat the lunches from Maison Table this week?”
Noah shook his head.
“Why not?”
“Mom said we’re not doing those anymore.”
Damon turned.
Renee crossed her arms.
“They waste them.”
“Noah?”
“I like them.”
“Ava?”
“I like pasta.”
Damon stared at the shelves.
He had received automatic delivery confirmations all week.
He had paid for the food.
Renee had sent him photographs Tuesday night of the children sitting at the dinner table.
Everything looked normal.
“What have they been eating?”
Renee’s face flushed.
“Food.”
“What food?”
“You’re staring at dinner.”
Damon looked toward the plates.
Small portions.
Very small.
He had not noticed until now.
“Breakfast?”
“Oatmeal.”
“Lunch?”
“They eat at school.”
Noah shook his head.
“Not this week.”
Damon turned.
“What?”