The Wife He Buried Alive novel · Chapter 21 of 32

Chapter 21: Sit, Darling

Harriet's dining room had not changed in five years.

The same long mahogany table, the same crystal, the same portrait of Winston's father over the sideboard with his hand on a globe.

She had set three places and laid a leg of lamb in the middle, with rosemary and a ring of roasted potatoes.

"Sit, sit," she said. "I'll just fetch the gravy."

Winston sat across from me and did not touch his fork.

Under my collar, a small silver pin lay against my throat.

The investigator had fixed it there in the car outside, with his own hands, and told me it would hear anything said within thirty feet.

I smiled at Harriet because I had been smiling at her for five years.

"Winston, you look thin," she said, setting down the gravy boat. "Both of you. Linnea, take more potatoes."

I took potatoes.

We talked about Milo's counts. We talked about the hat, and the elephant, and the color of the hospital walls.

It was the longest meal I had ever eaten.

Between the lamb and the pudding, Harriet asked me to help her in the kitchen.

Winston's eyes lifted to mine.

I gave him the smallest nod.

The kitchen was warm, with copper pans on hooks and a pot of soup steaming on the back burner.

Harriet closed the door behind us.

She did it softly, with one hand on the knob.

"Now," she said. "We can speak freely."

I put the pudding dish down on the counter.

"I'd like that," I said.

She turned around.

Her face had not changed. It was the same patient, silver-haired face that had sat on the end of my hospital bed with a thermos.

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