To my left, a black and white photograph by Andrew Prokos called Fulton Oculus #2. The image evokes the feeling of an all-seeing, ominous eye made of steel and glass.
To my right, a painting by John Singer Sargent of a woman sitting at a dinner table. She faces the viewer, her hand wrapped around a glass of red wine. A man sits next to her at the far right of the image. But he’s not looking at the viewer. He’s looking at her.
Beyond that, a print of The Waltz, by Félix Vallotton. It depicts couples dancing, but they seem almost ghostly. The woman in the lower right corner looks like she’s asleep.
After that…
I look at Rowan and place my cocktail on a coaster and leave it on the side table, untouched. He’s immersed in conversation with our host and doesn’t notice me.
But Thorsten does.
“Drink not to your taste, my darling?” Thorsten asks with a tight smile.
“It’s delicious, thank you. Just saving myself for your wonderful collection of wine,” I reply with a bow of my head.
His smile seems more relaxed when he sets his own drink down and declares it’s time to move on to the main event.
“I can’t tell you how elated I am to have a professional chef grace my table this evening,” Thorsten says, leading us to the dining room where classical music plays on a low volume and candles flicker among the dark flowers of an elaborate centerpiece. He points me toward a mahogany chair covered with plush red velvet, pulling it away from the table and pushing it back in as I sit. “And his lovely companion as well, of course.”
“Thank you,” I say, dropping a demure smile to my place setting. I don’t know anything about antique bone china, but I’m willing to bet Thorsten would have an absolute fit if any of it were smashed.
I file that thought for later.
“And such a lovely couple you make. How did you meet, anyway?”
“Oh, we’re just friends,” I say at the same time that Rowan says ‘an expedition in the bayou.’
We give one another a pointed look as Thorsten laughs. “Seems like you might have differing opinions on the subject of your relationship status.”
“Well, it’s hard to compete with the stunning wait staff and Rowan’s adoring socialite regulars,” I say with a sickly sweet smile.
“No one competes with Sloane.” Rowan’s eyes anchor on mine, dragging me into the depths of a navy sea. “She just hasn’t realized it yet.”
Our gazes stay locked for a heartbeat that feels too heavy in my chest. But the suspended moment is cut too short as Thorsten chuckles, the pop of a wine cork breaking the connection between us. “Perhaps tonight she will. Let us take inspiration from the art of cuisine. For as Longfellow said, ‘Art is long, and time is fleeting, and our hearts, though stout and brave, still, like muffled drums, are beating funeral marches to the grave.’”
Rowan and I exchange a glance as Thorsten focuses on pouring his wine, and I manage to roll my eyes and catch his fleeting grin in reply before our host can look our way.
When my wine is decanted into an etched crystal goblet and Thorsten has settled into his chair, he raises his glass for a toast. “To new friends. And for some of us, perhaps one day more than just friends.”
“To new friends,” we echo, and a sliver of unexpected disappointment finds its way beneath my skin when I realize I’d hoped Rowan might repeat the last line of the toast instead.
Our host takes a sip of his wine and I do the same, figuring it must be safe enough to drink if he’s taking a long pull. He holds up his glass and grins at the ruby wine. “2015 Tenuta Tignanello, ‘Marchese Antinori’ Reserva. I do love a nice Chianti,” he says. He takes another sip, closing his eyes on a deep breath before his lids snap open. “Let us begin.”
Thorsten picks up a little bell next to his place setting, its tinkling melody flooding the dining room. A moment later, a man enters with slow, careful steps, pushing a silver serving cart toward the table. He appears to be in his late thirties, tall, athletic with broad shoulders that stoop as though the muscles have recently forgotten they have a job to do. The yellowing remains of healing bruises rim his vacant eyes.
“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.’
