It was a beautifully warm day, unseasonable for this time of year. Millie's uncle Fred
decides to take advantage of it. It's not like warm days like this will continue. He grabs his
jacket from the coat rack and then wanders through the house in search of his wife.
He finds her standing in front of the granite counter; various baking utensils, along with
mixing bowls, measuring cups, and a large assortment of baking goods are scattered all
around her, taking every single inch of space. Her once neatly pinned hair is down around
her face. Her favorite white-and-baby-pink apron is stained with God knows what. Flour
covers the countertop, the floor, her face, and her nose.
A soft chuckle escapes him as Fred recalls the first time he'd seen her this way. That time
she had streaks of melted chocolate smeared across her cheeks and chin, and her hair
was a mix of what appeared to be chunks of baking powder, chocolate, and flour. "You look
like a tasty treat." He laughed.
With a frustrated look on her face, she says, "I was trying to bake your mom a birthday cake,
but I can't seem to get it right."
It was her very first attempt at decorating.
"I'm sure she'll love whatever you make," he replies, kissing the top of her forehead.
"Delicious," he says, smacking his lips.
She later claimed that you can always tell a good chef from an amateur cook by the
disaster they leave behind, something her cooking instructor once said. He didn't dare
argue the fact. Not with his mother standing beside her, giving him a stern keep-your-trap
shut look.
A clanking pan falling to the floor yanks him from his memory.
"I'm running into town to pick up a few things; want to come?"
She glances at the mess, shakes her head, and says, "I've got too much work to do at the
house."
"What are you doing?" he asks, glancing at the disaster area he wants to call the kitchen.
"The church is having a potluck on Sunday, and I volunteered to bring dessert." She eyes
the mess again and groans. "Wish I wouldn't have now." She sighs.
Fred glances at the baked goods cooling by the stove. "You already have enough to feed an
entire army."
She follows his eyes and then shakes her head. "The Thompson kids are coming, so they
will have most of those gone before you know it."
He recalls the three growing brothers. All three boys could easily eat their body weight in
food. "That's for sure."
Careful not to disrupt the baking goods chaos, he leans across the counter and gently
kisses her on the forehead. "Have fun."
"I don't know how you can think this is fun," she says, swiping a loose hair from her face.
Chuckling to himself, he steps onto the porch. Fred glances up at the bright morning sun
sitting high in the clear eastern sky, quickly warming his wrinkly skin. I'm going to miss
these days, he thinks, recalling the cold, blizzardy days ahead. With a heavy sigh, he
climbed into his truck.
A few minutes later, he's standing outside his niece's door. He does his usual three-tap
knock, but Millie doesn't respond. He waits a few minutes before trying again.
I might see her in town. He's headed to his car when an unsettling feeling comes over him,
making his stomach churn. He couldn't explain it, but something didn't seem quite right.
Fred is heading to the door when he decides to check for her car in the garage instead.
That's strange, he thinks, seeing Millie's coupe still parked in the spot it had been in a week
ago. One of her friends might've taken her out. He's heading to his truck when Millie's
heartbreaking words replay in his mind.
"Everyone I thought were my friends has turned on me," she sobbed into his shoulder.
His panic rises to an all-time high as his stomach balls into a hard knot.
Climbing out of the truck, he races towards the back. Taking his keys from his pocket. His
hands begin to shake as he unlocks the door. Throwing the door open, he eases his way in.
Fred was stunned to find the once tidy house in complete disarray. Dirty pots and pans are
scattered across every inch of the countertop; half-eaten food is lodged in between them.
A trail of crumbs lines the entire floor. Fred then recalls his niece's meltdown when the
accusations began. Horrid images of that day suddenly come to mind.
"Millie?" he yells, dashing through the house. Not finding her on the lower level, he darts up
the stairs.
"Millie," he calls again, sprinting from room to room, flinging each of the doors open, and
taking a quick look around.
His chest heaves with every breath; his heart pounds violently in his chest as he makes his
way to the hall. "Where could she be?"
The doorbell slices through the eerie silence. Taking a single deep breath, he races down
the steps.
Fred throws the wooden barrier open to find Millie's oldest friend, Libby, standing on the
porch. A look of disgust sweeps across his face. She's the last person I wanted to see
today, he thinks. Fred never really cared for the girl and told her as much a couple of times.
"The girl is nothing but trouble," he'd claim.
Impatiently shifting her weight, the woman glances behind him. With a confused
expression on her face and brows knitted, she asks, "Where's Millie?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"I haven't seen her in over a week, and she's not returning any of my calls or my texts."
"Maybe my wife knows where she's at."
"The woman peeks around him again. "Is she here? Because I really need to talk to her too."
You haven't changed. Fred sighs. He figures it's probably some sort of drama that she's
stirred up. It seems she's always causing chaos wherever she goes, which she claims is no
fault of her own. It's the reason he nicknamed her Donna, short for prima donna, when she
was a kid, and the title still seems to fit her even now.
Fred wiggles the flip phone in his hand. "No, but I can call."
A few minutes later, Fred snapped the phone shut. Sighing heavily, he explains. "My wife
said she's hiding somewhere safe. Martha said she tried to press her on the matter, but
Millie refused to tell her where, claiming that it'd be better for us if we didn't know."
Libby's eyes widen as a look of shock crosses her face. "Last time I spoke to Millie, she was
claiming that she's being framed but wasn't sure who. Millie also believes the police are
involved somehow."
"I don't think the police are connected to this, but her soon-to-be ex just might be."
A confused expression replaces the shock. Shaking her head, Libby asks. "Wait, what? You
believe Steven is doing this to her?"
Fred nods.
Why?" She presses.
"Follow me." Leading to the kitchen, he scoops up the divorce decree from the table.
The woman inspects it. Her eyes quickly focus on the line where Millie's signature should
be. Bringing it closer, Libby reads,
"I refuse to sign your divorce decree."
"So, your theory is Steven is getting revenge because she won't sign the decree?"
With a small chuckle and a roll of her eyes, she hands the paper back. "That's a little far-fetched.
Don't you think?"
"Millie did say Steven had a fiancé and a baby on the way, which could get Steven court
martialed if the military ever finds out."
"Wait, what? Steven has a fiancé and a kid on the way?"
"Surprised by her reaction," Fred asks. "Millie didn't tell you?" Back in the day, Millie used to
tell Libby everything.
With a heavy sigh she says, "We don't talk much these days."
Fred clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "What a shame."
Libby glares at him. Sarcastic old fool, she thinks. She then recalls things Steven has
pulled in the past with his manipulation and well-told lies. "It would be just like him to do
something like this." Millie's sob echoes in her mind. A confused expression crosses her
face. "Wait, I thought she said Steven was dead."
Fred grabs the vanilla envelope and points to the postmark dated two days back."
"According to this, he's not."
The front door flies open, slamming against the adjacent wall. "Freeze, police," an officer
says, storming into the house.