“This is David,” Thorsten says as David places a plate of hors d’oeuvres before me. David doesn’t look up, just trudges back to the trolley where he fetches a plate for Rowan. “Mr. Miller can’t talk. He had a terrible accident recently, so I have taken him under my employ.”
“Oh, how very kind of you,” I say. My stomach twists with discomfort. I figured Rowan might have worked out who we’re dealing with since yesterday, but when I look up at him, the first hints of regret start to seep beneath my skin. My eyebrows hike when he meets my eyes. ‘Haven’t you figured it out yet, pretty boy?’ I try to convey with nothing more than my widened eyes.
He tilts his head and gives me a fleeting, quizzical expression, a reply that simply says, ‘...huh?’
Nope. He definitely has not figured it out.
That twinge of regret starts to burn.
When Thorsten’s plate is set down, David leaves. “Goat cheese crostini with olive tapenade,” Thorsten declares. “Enjoy.”
I try not to let my sigh of relief seem too obvious as we start the first course. It’s legitimately pretty good, maybe a little salty but at least it’s a decent start. Rowan charms Thorsten with compliments that seem sincere, and the two talk about possible refinements that would elevate the dish. Rowan suggests fig to bring sweetness into the balance, and I keep my attention on our host to escape his heavy gaze. It rests on my cheek, searing my skin like a brand when he mentions the fig phyllo Napoleon from the dessert menu at 3 In Coach.
I play along with the conversation, nod and laugh at all the right places, but really I’m not paying that much attention—I’m too concerned with how I’m going to communicate anything to Rowan with the power of my facial expressions alone.
When the course is done, Thorsten summons David again with the bell, and he collects our dishes to return with gazpacho soup. This round is fine, nothing special, but Rowan seems pleased, and the two discuss the tomato varieties that Thorsten grows on the property.
“I would love to see your garden,” Rowan says after Thorsten details the other herbs and produce he nurtures in the backyard.
Thorsten’s pleasant mask slips, a feral gleam igniting in his eyes before a blink carries it away. “Oh, I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Rowan grins, but this is his smile of secrets, and it’s one I know well. At least he’s aware that we’re in the presence of another murderer, so I guess that’s a plus. I’m momentarily hopeful that maybe Rowan does know who Thorsten is after all, and he’s just been keeping it under wraps in the hopes of winning this round of our competition.
But when Thorsten uncorks a fresh bottle of wine, topping up both our glasses but not his own and watching with predatory interest as Rowan takes a long sip, I know my hopes have been dashed.
I guess I should be happy. This is shaping up to be an easy win. In reality, however, my anxiety has my chest feeling like I’ve been plugged into a power grid. I’m grateful for the hideously ornate tablecloth that shields my jittering legs from view.
Rowan takes another generous sip of wine as the culinary discussion continues. Thorsten summons David to return for the empty soup bowls, relaying explicit instructions to bring back the salad course from a specific shelf in the kitchen. He’s repeating the steps to David for a third time when Rowan catches my eye over the lip of his wine glass with a questioning flicker in his brows, as though he’s asking what the fuck is going on.
‘Lobotomy,’ I mouth at him, trying to make it look like I’m scratching my forehead when I tap it and nod toward David. Rowan’s head tilts and I roll my eyes, gritting my teeth. ‘Lo-bo-to-my.’
Rowan’s head tilts in the other direction, his brow still furrowed but a hint of a grin playing at his lips. He subtly points at me, and then at himself. ‘You love me?’ he mouths.
I smack my head.
“Everything all right, my darling?” Thorsten asks as David departs for the kitchen.
“Oh yes, of course. I just remembered something I forgot to do at work before I left. But it’s fine, I’ll do it in the morning.” Thorsten smiles at my excuse, but it’s brittle around the edges, uncertainty bleeding into his mask. “Late morning at this rate. This wine is going down a treat,” I tack on with a charming smile. He watches as I bring the glass to my lips and swallow, though I don’t let any of the liquid into my mouth. The deception seems to appease him and I set my glass down, folding my hands in my lap.
Thorsten’s restraint buckles as the approaching trolley squeaks in the hallway, a beaming, ravenous grin claiming his features as his refined mask peels away. But Rowan doesn’t notice. He just smiles at me, swaying slightly in his chair, a glassy sheen coating his half-lidded eyes.
“You look so pretty, Blackbird,” he says as David enters the room with three covered dishes on the trolley.
Blush flames in my cheeks. “Thank you.”
“You always look pretty. When you came to the restaurant, I said—” Rowan hiccups twice, then drowns the next one with a gulp of wine, “I said, ‘Sloane is the most beautiful girl in the world’. And then my brother called me a ‘feckin eejit’ because I could have all the pussy I wanted in Boston but instead I’ve taken a vow of obstinence—”
“Abstinence.”
“—abstinence over a girl who doesn’t want me.”
I’m pretty sure the blush has set fire to my skin and the source of the flame is my incinerated heart.
Thorsten grins in my periphery, clearly entertained by our dinner conversation. My lips part, a held breath burning in my chest. All I manage to say is a single word: “Rowan…”
But his attention has dropped to the dish set before him.
“Beef Niçoise,” Rowan chimes with a delighted smile as he takes up his knife and fork. I glance at Thorsten who watches Rowan with rapt attention. “I love Beef Niçoise.”
“Yes,” our host says as he lays a folded piece of paper-thin rare meat on his tongue. “Niçoise.”
“Rowan—”
“I’m so curious to know your thoughts, chef,” Thorsten barrels on. “This is my special take on the traditional version.”
“Rowan—” I hiss, but it’s too late. Rowan’s already scooped a forkful of salad into his mouth, his eyes closing as he savors the chopped lettuce and green beans and cherry tomatoes and…beef.
“This is fantastic,” he says, slurring his words. He spears another forkful of salad with an unsteady hand and jams it into his already-full mouth. “Homemade dijon dressing?”
Thorsten beams under the compliment. “Yes—I used an extra half-teaspoon of brown sugar as the meat is gamey.”
“So good.”
I swipe a hand down my face as Rowan manages to shovel one more bite into his mouth before he passes out face-down on his plate.
There’s a beat of silence. Thorsten and I stare at the man sleeping on a bed of salad with thinly-sliced rare human steak hanging out of his mouth.
When Thorsten meets my eyes, it’s as though he’s coming out of a euphoric haze.
He thought I was drinking my wine. When I wasn’t drunk enough, he probably thought he could easily subdue me.