Please don’t cry,” I begged. Amelia looked awful; hair, usually so soft and feathery, was limp. She was so pale.Lifting her glasses, she wiped her...eyes with the back of her hand, gave me a half-hearted smile, and reached for my hand. Her touch was delicate and her hand ice cold.Peter looked at me from behind her.“What did you do to her?” I asked in a whisper.Then all the memories flooded back. I inhaled sharply and winced at the pain. “Where’s Rufus? Is he okay?”Amelia nodded. She finally. Her husband John was cooking as he always did on the weekends.Wearingjust his favorite dark blue apron , chef's hat and a black jock strap.Every man should cook like this on the weekends she thought to herself.at least mine does. Her husband was average height about 5'10'' dark hair , blue eyes witha lean swimmers build. His looks were average but John always had a smile on his face. " What are you looking at? " he asked as he noticed her standing in the doorway. " You. Can I help it. More

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