Chapter 22: What Dominik Owes

Dominik's POV

On Sunday at seven the neighbors came back.

I had not expected any of them.

At six I had stood in the yard with my hands in my pockets, sure the table would stay empty.

Twelve came up the path.

The baker came first, carrying a covered dish.

The baker's wife walked behind him with her mouth set.

The old doctor came last, slowly, with his cane.

Nobody greeted me.

Florian had set the table. Felix had lit the lanterns. Vincent had put out the plates.

Lena stood at the far end in her grey hoodie with her hands at her sides.

She had not spoken to me since the dock.

She had not looked at me either, until now.

I had not cooked.

There was no lamb on the table, and nothing in my hands to carve.

They sat.

The baker's wife poured water into every glass, and not one glass held wine.

"Dominik," Lena said. "You have something to say."

I stood up.

My knees shook.

"Thank you for coming," I said. "You don't owe me that."

"Get on with it," the baker said.

I looked at him.

I looked at all of them, one at a time, because I had promised myself I would.

"I drugged Lena Marquardt," I said.

"On her birthday, and on other nights, I put sleeping tablets in her wine."

"We carried her up to her bed, all four of us, in front of you."

"Then we went into her room."

A chair scraped.

"I put my fingers inside her," I said. "I did it more than once."

"I pressed ice on her skin to see if she would flinch."

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