Chapter 5: Sunday Lunch

Thatcher ate Lacey's sandwich on Friday night without a word.

He stood at my desk, finished every bite and handed me the wrapper folded into a square.

"Affection: thirty-one percent," said the voice. "Plus two. Reason: sandwich."

"Is that all it takes?" I whispered.

"Do not tell him that."

On Sunday I took a bus to the Kincaid house.

It sat at the end of a long drive with a stone lion on each gatepost.

Constance opened the front door herself.

"June, dear. You came."

"I wouldn't miss it."

"He told you not to, didn't he?" She smiled. "He always does. Come in."

The dining room had a table for twelve, set for four.

Monique was already in a chair, wearing pale yellow, with her phone face down next to her plate.

"June!" She stood and hugged me. "I was hoping."

Thatcher came in last.

He stopped in the doorway and looked at the four place settings, then at me.

"I told you not to come," he said.

"That's four," I said.

"Four what?" asked Monique.

"Nothing," Thatcher said. "She counts."

He sat. The only empty chair was next to mine.

I thought about that for a second.

Then I decided not to, because I was busy being useful.

The first thing I did was refill everyone's water.

I did it before the maid could, and I did it from the left.

"Lovely," said Constance.

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