Foster homes all had a smell. Some were thick with cigarette
smoke, others carried the sharp scent of bleach, masking
something worse. The last one smelled like cheap perfume
and regret. Ella Donovan had learned to recognize the scent
of a place before she ever learned its rules. Some houses had
curfews, some had unspoken threats. But all of them had one
thing in common-she never stayed long.
This new house, the Martins' house, smelled like cinnamon.
Warm, sweet, too inviting. Like a lie wrapped in the scent of
fresh-baked cookies. Ella stood stiffly in the doorway, gripping
the straps of her duffel bag as Mrs. Martin beamed at her like
this was some kind of Hallmark moment.
"We're so glad you're here, Ella," Mrs. Martin said, her voice
soft, motherly. The kind of voice that should've meant safety
but didn't. Not for her.
Mr. Martin nodded beside his wife, his hands tucked into the
pockets of his jeans. "We've been praying for you."
Praying. Of course. They were that kind of family.