She Killed Me at Christmas. I Came Back. Chapter 02

She Killed Me at Christmas. I Came Back. Chapter 02

Every dish on that table was laced with crushed peanuts—ground so fine you’d never pick them out. Peanut oil shimmering on the roasted carrots. Crumbs dusted through the stuffing like sawdust.

And not a trace of shellfish anywhere.

Brynn watched me sit down, challenge glinting under her lashes. “Sloane, I cooked all afternoon. You have to try everything.”

Grant opened his mouth—probably to mention his own allergy—but I caught his arm and leaned close. “It’s Christmas Eve. Let’s not hurt Brynn’s feelings, hmm?”

His gaze went soft and warm—aimed at her, not me. “Brynnie, thank you for all this. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” She beamed.

Grant, creature of habit, stuck to his beer and didn’t touch a thing. Then his mother, Patty, carried out a steaming pot of corn chowder. Grant stirred it with his spoon, checked it the way he always checked—no visible shrimp, no visible nuts—and, satisfied, put away three bowls in a row.

I barely lifted my fork.

That’s when Brynn slid a bowl of chowder in front of me. “Sloane, this is my grandma’s recipe. I simmered it for three hours. You have to try it.”

Memories of my last life flickered—the same bowl, the same smile, my own throat closing. I demurred. Said I wasn’t big on chowder.

Brynn’s eyes instantly rimmed red, like I’d slapped her in church. “Did… did I do something wrong? I made it especially for you.”

Grant’s jaw tightened at me. “It’s soup, Sloane. Would it kill you to take a sip? You really need to upset her on Christmas Eve?”

His parents piled on.

“That girl cooked all day for you, missy.”

“City folks. Can’t even accept a kindness.”

I let my shoulders drop, the picture of defeat. I took three slow sips.

Triumph lit Brynn’s face like tinsel. She couldn’t help herself—she never could. “Sloane, fun fact—I ground roasted peanuts right into the base. Gives it that depth. Good, isn’t it?”

Before I could answer, Grant made a sound like a punctured tire.

“You put—” His hand flew to his throat. “You put peanuts in—”

Brynn blinked. “It needed body, Grant, chowder’s bland without—”

Grant’s bowl shattered against the floor. His face was already blotching crimson, lips swelling. “Sloane told you—no peanuts—she told you—”

“I thought she said she LIKED them!” Brynn shrieked. “And look, she’s fine! She’s totally fine!”

I was fine.

Grant was not.

He lurched up, wheezing, clawing at his collar—then crashed sideways into the Christmas tree and took it down with him, ornaments exploding across the floor like tiny dying stars.

“GRANT!” Patty screamed.

I pressed my hand against the antihistamines in my pocket—the ones I’d bought that very afternoon, just in case I needed to look helpful—and forced urgency into my voice. “It’s anaphylaxis! His airway’s closing! Where’s his EpiPen? Somebody call 911—if we wait, he suffocates!”

Chaos. Earl Whitlock fumbling with his phone. Patty on her knees, screaming her son’s name. Brynn standing frozen, white as the snow outside, the ladle still in her hand.

The ambulance took forty minutes on rural roads. By the time the paramedics burst in, Grant’s lips were gray.

At the county hospital, we waited five hours before a doctor came out, pulling off his gloves with a heavy sigh.

“He’s stable. Barely. Sir, ma’am—your son has a severe peanut allergy, and the amount he ingested…” He shook his head. “Five more minutes, we’d be having a very different conversation.”

The color drained from Brynn’s face. She whipped toward me, voice cracking. “Grant’s allergic to peanuts—why didn’t you SAY anything?!”

I blinked, the picture of innocence.

“I didn’t?” I turned to his parents, letting my voice tremble just right. “Patty. Earl. You were both at that island when I told her—no peanuts, not a trace, an airway can close. Grant was standing right there. You all heard me.”

The room went very still.

Patty rose slowly from the plastic hospital chair, and when she turned to Brynn, her voice had gone arctic.

“Brynn Hadley. We’ve fed you at our table since you were six years old.” She stepped closer. “Sloane told you no peanuts. And you ground them into powder so no one could see them.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits.

“Was it on purpose?”