Page 82 of Three-Inch Teeth

Again the headshake.

“Then what is it? I’m really curious to find out.”

“It’s nothing. Kindly eat and leave.”

“Wow,” Sheridan said, pouring syrup on her pancakes. “Right to the point.”

As Sheridan ate her first mouthful, she said, “I can see why Mr. Bottom likes his breakfast. These pancakes are delicious.” And they were: fluffy, slightly sweet, with a sour buttermilk tang.

“Leon likes his breakfast, even though he eats it like a pig,” Cotton said. Her tone was bitter and dismissive, but for the first time she’d actually said something to Sheridan that wasn’t passive-aggressive or downright hostile toward her.

Sheridan wasn’t sure how to respond, so she didn’t. She watched as Cotton broke the yolk of the first fried egg and let it run off the crisp white edges until it painted the surface of the top pancake. Then she lifted it and pierced the yolk of the middle egg.

Sheridan was startled, and at first she couldn’t put her finger on why. Then it hit her.

“My dad eats pancakes like that,” she said. “You’re the only person besides him I’ve ever seen who uses that … method. No syrup at all, just egg yolks soaked into the pancake.”

Cotton seemed to freeze. Again, she refused to make eye contact.

“He also makes the best pancakes I’ve ever had until these,” Sheridan said. “What’s your secret?”

“No secret,” Cotton said, deadpan. “It’s just Bisquick, but I add sugar, baking powder, buttermilk, oil, eggs, and a teaspoon of vanilla.”

Sheridan sat back. “That’s exactly what my dad does. He used to make them for us every Sunday morning. I grew up eating these exact pancakes. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”

“It is,” Cotton said with no enthusiasm.

“What are the odds? The same pancake recipe.”

“I don’t find it all that interesting,” Cotton said. “It’s a recipe right off the side of the box. Nothing special.”

“Still …”

Cotton ignored her. She was eating more quickly, as if in a hurry to get it all over with as soon as possible. Sheridan used the moment to slip her phone out of her back pocket, activate the camera app, and raise it from her lap until the lenses barely cleared the table.

“Did you make your kids pancakes when they were little?” Sheridan asked. While she said it, she snapped several photos of Cotton, then lowered the phone back out of view.

Cotton flinched at the question. “Why do you ask?”

“I guess I’m just making conversation.”

“Yes, I made my boys pancakes. No big deal. Why do we need conversation?”

“I guess we don’t,” Sheridan said. “Boys, huh? How many?”

“Two,” Cotton sighed.

“Do they live around here? Do you get to see them?”

For the first time, Cotton looked up. Her eyes flared. “The younger one is dead. The older one I never see.”

“That’s sad for you, I’m sure,” Sheridan said.

“It’s the way it is. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Okay. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Sheridan returned to her breakfast, but something was still nagging at her. The feeling was getting stronger.

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