Chapter 7: Dinner With a Stranger

Quincy walked into the lake house at seven sharp with a bottle of wine and a face.

"Mr. Crane," Kenneth said, hand out. "Thank you for coming."

"Mr. Stockwell. Your wife's very kind to invite me."

Your wife's, he said, and did not look at me.

I stood by the fireplace in a black dress with my fingers locked together.

He had chosen the dress for me that afternoon, and laid it on the bed.

I had put it on, because a woman in a locked house wears what she is given, and watches.

"I don't believe we've met," Quincy said to me.

"Suzette Stockwell."

"A pleasure."

His hand closed around mine, dry and cool, and gave one small pressure.

We sat.

Lillian poured.

Kenneth carved, and the whole table smelled of rosemary.

"Kenneth tells everyone he rescued me," I said brightly. "Don't you, darling? It's his favorite story."

"Because it's true," Kenneth said.

"Rescued her from what?" Quincy asked.

"From the city," Kenneth said. "From the gossip. From a world that had decided she was finished."

"Odd," Quincy said, cutting his meat. "I always heard the city never found out who took her."

Kenneth's knife paused for half a second.

"Terrible thing," he said. "The police were useless."

"I'll be direct," Kenneth said. "My wife wrote to you."

"She did?" Quincy lifted his glass. "Did she."

"She's not well. She's frightened, and she says foolish things." He smiled at me. "I wanted to meet the man she thought might help."

"Help with what?"

"Leaving me."

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