Blake’s POV

If hell had a waiting room, it would look exactly like the Prescott kitchen.

Everything was white. White counters. White cabinets. White plates. White walls. Even the stupid fruit bowl looked like it had been arranged by someone with a clipboard and trust issues. There was not a single crumb anywhere, and that alone made me uncomfortable. A kitchen was supposed to look lived in. This one looked like it would call security if you spilled milk.

I sat at the small round table, knees ...