Page 49 of When Sinners Fear
“Sorry, I wasn’t sure where you were. You wear glasses.”
“All intelligent people do.”
“I don't.”
“That'll be the thirteen years between us. Give it time.” I worry my hands at his sharp tone, looking around the study instead of at him. Thirteen years. I hadn’t calculated that. I didn’t even know how old he was. “I’m working. What do you want?”
“Okay. I’ll just … do you have any books?”
There’s a small tug at the corner of his mouth, which I want to take as a smile, but his eyes are still hard and cold.
“What do you want to read? Books are in the living room, but also in the reception room across the hall.”
“Anything. A classic? Or a non-fiction text.” My eyes roam the room, and I see the small collection of books to his side. “Poe?”
He stares at me and then nods, dropping his glasses on the desk. I don’t miss the awkwardness in his movement as he stands and reaches for a book high on his shelf.
Turning to me, he waits, four feet away. “Lift your top up.”
“What?”
“I want to see your back.” I frown but pull the material gently, exposing the bruising and cuts from the whip and his teeth. He doesn't touch me, just looks until he holds the book for me and heads back to his desk. “Non-fiction is in the other room.”
It’s a dismissal, and I take it as that, clutching the book and leaving. “Oh, Knox, are you staying here today? You’re not leaving?”
He stares at me again as if he's thinking about something other than the question I asked. “It depends.”
I want to ask on what, but I just nod and force myself to leave. I find myself back in the nook in the kitchen and place the book down. Given our conversation yesterday, I’d expected the text to be The Raven, or his poetry. That’s what I wanted to read, to try and unpick more about him, but instead, it’s a copy of short stories. It doesn’t stop me from opening the cover and flicking to the first page. Ironically, the passage of time is marked by similar events as those first hours in the cage: hunger, thirst and bathroom needs.
The buzzer on the door sounds sometime in the early evening, and I bolt to the hall. Knox looks at me and nods, as if telling me it’s okay, before welcoming the doctor inside. They disappear towards the living room.
“I’ll start dinner,” I call, needing to be useful.
I explore the kitchen and pantry and settle on a simple home-cooked meal – one I’d make for my family. The stab of pain in my gut is crippling, but I push past it and pull the chicken out of the fridge. I guess one of his siblings stocked the place.
For the next thirty minutes, I focus on the chicken and gravy over biscuits. It’s nothing fancy, and a part of me thinks it’s not the kind of meal that Knox would be used to, but we’re both recovering. It will be good for us.
“The doctor wants to see you for a follow-up.”
I freeze and turn around. “I’m fine. I’m not even taking all the painkillers,” I protest.
“You’ll see him tomorrow, Peyton.”
“Fine. Dinner’s ready. I thought we’d eat here.” The casserole dish is already set in the middle of the nook’s table.
He moves to the elaborate rack of wine bottles, pulls one and brings it to the table with two glasses. It reminds me of the conversation at the museum – how I’m not used to alcohol. The appeal to down the glass and ask for another right after is now lodged in my mind as I bring the rest of the dinner to the table.
I sip the white wine and then wait to see if Knox will serve. He doesn’t, so I stand and put my hand out for his plate. “I hope you don’t mind chicken and gravy. My mother taught me to cook, but I’m limited to homely recipes.”
“This is good.” His clipped answer doesn’t fill me with any reassurance, but I smile through it.
We sit and eat again in silence, but it’s more uncomfortable now. I keep glancing up at him, and when our eyes meet, I can’t hold his gaze, like there’s a secret I don’t want him to see.
“What are your plans for tomorrow?” he asks after draining his first glass.
“The doctor, apparently.”
“Your family?” he prompts.