Chapter 4

Mrs. Johnson was practically draped over John Adams, working her charm like she had perfected the art.

“John, if it weren’t for you, I don’t know what would’ve happened. I really thought I was at the end of my rope,” she said, her voice trembling for effect.

“I was so hungry that I collapsed just outside my door.”

John, ever the gentleman, responded quickly. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’m a retired chef! Making a meal for you would’ve been no trouble at all.”

Mrs. Johnson kept her tone soft, still pulling at his emotions. “How could I impose? Besides, your son mentioned that the meals you make at home are all too heavy, more suited for a glass of whiskey. I’m not sure I’d be able to handle it…”

John bristled at the mention of his son. “Michael’s talking nonsense! We eat hearty, delicious food every day. Tell you what, why don’t I whip up a nice chicken pot pie for you?”

Mrs. Johnson hesitated for effect. “Won’t Michael mind?”

That set John off. “Mind? What business is it of his? I make the rules in my house!”

Mrs. Johnson smiled sweetly. “You’re too kind, John. Anyone lucky enough to be a part of your family is truly blessed.”

With that, she had him wrapped around her finger. John was practically glowing from her praise, and off he went to cook her a meal.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Mrs. Johnson hadn’t lost her touch. In no time at all, she had found her next target—a free personal chef.

I could only imagine Michael’s face when he came home to find that the pot pie meant for his dinner had been devoured by Mrs. Johnson.

Satisfied with the little drama, I ordered another round of takeout and spent the rest of the afternoon lounging comfortably. As I settled down to watch a movie, my phone buzzed—there was a flurry of activity in the Nextdoor Community Group.

“Mrs. Johnson, couldn’t you have discussed whatever it was in person? Did my dad really need to go over to your place in the middle of the night?”

“What’s going on that you have to drag him into this mess?” Michael’s post read.

Mrs. Johnson wasted no time replying. “I just wanted to thank your father for making me dinner. Michael, I think you’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting? My dad has never once cooked for me in years. Then suddenly he’s making you pot pie? I’ve never even had his pot pie!” Michael fumed in the chat.

Frustrated, John finally chimed in. “That’s enough! Mrs. Johnson needs help, and I’m more than happy to provide it. You’re a grown man—do you still expect me to cook your meals? Seriously, Michael, stop being selfish!”

The chat had clearly caught everyone’s attention. Michael, in a fit of rage, continued.

“Stop being selfish? I bust my butt working all day and come home to relax with a drink and a decent meal, but now my food is going to someone else? And let’s not forget—this woman had the nerve to cozy up to you, and now you’re at her place all the time!”

He wasn’t holding back. I hadn’t expected him to air their dirty laundry so openly.

The other neighbors jumped in, unable to resist.

“This does seem a bit much.”

“Yeah, getting free meals is one thing, but turning the chef into your personal servant is another.”

“Careful, Mrs. Johnson, if you steal our building’s prized cook, Michael’s going to starve.”

The comments kept rolling in, getting more and more out of hand. Mrs. Johnson remained silent, no doubt furious but unable to retaliate.

I let the chaos play out in the group while I turned back to my movie.

But the next morning, I woke to a different kind of chaos.

Standing at my front door was Steven Johnson.

And in his hand was a knife.