Chapter 20: Accountability

"As a guest," I said.

Dena nodded.

"One night," I said. "And you'll knock."

"I'll knock."

On Thursday she knocked at four exactly.

I opened the door.

She was wearing a plain gray coat I'd never seen before, cheap and new, with the price tag still hanging from one button.

She had a shopping bag in one hand and a pie from the diner in the other.

"The cook sent it," she said. "He says it's the only decent thing in the case, and I should tell you so."

"Did he say anything else?"

"He said, tell the one I should've hired that I took her sister back anyway." She almost smiled. "I'm on days now. Six to two."

I took the pie.

I snapped the price tag off her button and handed it to her.

She looked at it in her palm, and then put it in her pocket.

The house smelled of turkey and butter and the fire Mr. Stanhope had lit in the front room.

Anne came out of the kitchen in an apron with flour on her sleeve.

She stopped when she saw Dena.

"Hello, Dena."

"Hello, Mrs. Stanhope. Thank you for having me."

"Maisie's having you," Anne said. "I'm only cooking."

Thatcher was on the stairs.

He came down slowly, one hand on the rail.

He looked at my sister, and then at me, and then at my hip, which was still purple under my jeans.

"You're limping," he said.

"You're staring."

"Somebody has to keep an eye on you. You keep throwing yourself in front of trucks."

"Once."

"Twice, if you count cars."

"I don't count cars."

Anne sighed through her nose and went back into the kitchen.

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