“Cooking?” Jessica kept searching for some anchor in the conversation but wasn’t having much luck. “I cook out of desperation, not skill. Mostly because my budget doesn’t allow for a personal chef. Or even going out much for that matter.” She hadn’t mentioned that last bit to Natalya, never mind anyone else. She’d been sitting here in the dark for hours trying to wrestle with that. Mrs. Wilson had seen clean through the thin facade that Jessica had been feeding her parents for a while now—along with everyone else who asked. Her mentor had been kind enough to not prod for details in front of the others, rather offering a kind “come and talk when you’re ready” along with a hard hug. Jessica had been feeding the story to herself as well. And the journalist who had been telling the story—her