That afternoon’s lunch on the terrace is a horror show.
The Crispin staff have set up long tables under the cedar pergola at the back of the lodge, draped in white linen and hung with sprigs of cedar and tiny brass bells. There are propane heaters at every corner, and the centerpieces are little brass pheasants. I’m not a fan; if I never saw another pheasant in my life, it would still be too soon.
On the upside, they’ve laid out a buffet of food that, on any other day, I would have wanted to weep into. Roasted root vegetables glistening with rosemary oil. A crock of French onion soup the color of mahogany. Cornish hens, a charcuterie board the length of a coffin, mulled wine.
I cannot taste a single bite of it.
I have managed to choke down half a cup of broth and a heel of bread, and even that feels like it’s sitting just below the base of my throat, refusing to descend any further. The baby—my poor little passenger—must be getting nothing from me today but pure cortisol and adrenaline.
Sorry, kiddo. Tomorrow, we’ll do a smoothie. I promise.
Raymond is across from me, holding court with everyone in earshot. He hasn’t looked at me since the woods. His phone is face-down on the linen beside his fork, but he keeps checking it. Every two or three minutes, a discreet flip, a glance, a flip-back-down.
Bill and I are the only ones who seem to notice how preoccupied Raymond appears to be.
Down at the far end of the table, Matvei is sitting between two senior associates and a tax partner’s wife who is trying very hard to flirt with him. He’s being polite but distant. To anyone who doesn’t know him, he’s a man having a perfectly ordinary professional lunch on a perfectly ordinary work weekend.
To me, though, he looks like he’s holding himself so still that, if he moved a single muscle out of turn, he would shatter into a hundred sharp pieces and ruin everyone’s Brussels sprouts.
He hasn’t looked at me, either. I don’t know if that means he saw, or he didn’t, or he saw and he’s furious, or he saw and he’s pretending he didn’t see, or?—
Stop. Stop, Cassandra. Eat your bread.
I tear off another piece of bread, put it in my mouth, and chew like it owes me money.
Susan Oglethorpe is three seats down on my side, eating her soup with unhurried elegance. Like Raymond and Matvei, she also shows no interest in looking my way. Her face is as empty as it ever was.
Did I dream up the whole thing? No, I couldn’t have. It’s seared in my brain.
There are no secrets in this firm.I keep hearing it, over and over. Just cryptic enough to terrify me.
Raymond’s phone vibrates again. He flips it over—and this time, he doesn’t flip it back.
He reads whatever’s on his screen. As he does, his jaw grinds and the color crawls up his neck above his collar in a slow, uneven tide.
Then he stands.
It’s abrupt enough that his chair scrapes loudly against the flagstones. The conversation at the nearest seats falters and dies.
“Bill,” Raymond grumbles. “Apologies. Something personal just came up back in the city. Can’t wait.”
Bill’s spoon pauses halfway to his mouth. “Personal? Right this minute?”
“Unfortunately so.”
“You sure I can’t?—”
“Quite sure.” Raymond is already shrugging into his jacket and tucking his phone into the pocket. “Sorry to leave you in the lurch. I’ll square it up with you Monday.”
Bill’s face twists, then irons itself out. “If you must, Raymond. We’ll miss you for the rest of the weekend.”
“I’m sure you’ll soldier on just fine.” Raymond turns his head, for the first time since the woods, and looks directly at me. “Cassandra.”
I lift my chin. My throat has gone so dry that when I swallow it clicks. “Yes?”
“Pack,” he orders. “Now. We’re going.”
I stare at him. The terrace has gone very quiet around us. Patricia is making a politely scandalized little O with her mouth. Susan has set her spoon down very carefully. Bill is studying the rim of his wineglass.