Richard Kadrey
Houston, Texas 1963
ROXANNE Hill cut her finger on a broken teacup while finishing the dishes. She went into the bathroom and doused the injury with iodine, grimacing as it burned, but not making a sound. The pain was her penance for being clumsy enough to shatter one of her late mother’s cups. When she was done, she returned to the kitchen, but left the rest of the dishes to soak rather than ruining the bandage she’d carefully wrapped around the wound. She would finish the cutlery and plates tomorrow; at the same time she would scour the wall clean where a small patch of mold was beginning to grow on the wall behind the faucet.
The house was quiet. It was always quiet now. However, some days seemed heavier with silence than others, and this was one of them. Glancing at the calendar on the cupboard door reminded her why. It had been exactly a year since her family had died. How could she possibly have forgotten a date like that, she wondered. But she forgave herself because there had been so much to think about since her husband and children left her. The police, for instance.
She worried about them every day, though the fear had diminished greatly over the last few months. If the authorities didn’t know that she’d poisoned them by now, they weren’t likely to ever know. It was thrilling to think. She was free. Roxanne said the word once.
“Free.”
And in filling the silence it felt as if she’d broken a dark spell that had surrounded her for the previous three hundred and sixty-five days. She took a long breath and turned on the burner under the kettle. There was time for a cup of tea before she had to be at church.
* * *
After Wednesday evening services, she went down into the church basement with four other women and began sorting boxes of donations for the parish’s clothing drive. While the four other women babbled, Roxanne noticed that their voices were more hushed than usual. It was clear that while she’d forgotten the significance of the day earlier, the other women had not. Jeanette Morgan tried to draw her into the conversation by asking Roxanne’s opinion about an elegant evening dress she’d found in one of the boxes. There was no reason for the question, of course. Roxanne knew very little about fashion, much less about evening wear. It was an obvious attempt by Jeanette to draw her out. So, to break the tension mounting in the room, she said, “It’s beautiful. I wish I’d had something like that for my wedding.”
As she’d guessed, mentioning her marriage quieted the other women and they worked most of the rest of the evening in relative silence. Around eight p.m., Delilah Montgomery drew Roxanne aside and confided in her that she and the other women were worried.
She said, “You’ve been strong, honey, for a whole year. But we know it’s been hard on you too.”
“What do you mean?” said Roxanne, not liking the comment one bit.
“It’s your skin, darling. It’s so pale. And your eyes. We can tell you don’t sleep.”
In fact, Roxanne slept soundly every night. Still, she played along with the other women’s worry, hoping they’d leave her alone. They’d become intolerable to her over the past year. Such tiny people with such tiny lives, wanting nothing more than a clean house and mowed lawn to complete them. But she held her tongue and gave Delilah a smile that could be taken for grateful.
“I suppose it has been hard,” Roxanne said, hoping that would end the discussion. But it didn’t.
As if on cue, Jeanette approached her with a large aluminum pot she took from the refrigerator where they kept juice and snacks for Sunday school.
“We didn’t want you to have to cook tonight,” she said. “So we got together and made you a beef stew. Enough to last for a few days. And you don’t even have to return the pot. It’s yours. Our gift to you.”
Roxanne never dropped her grateful smile. She accepted the pot, saying, “Thank you so much. You’re such good friends.”
That was all it took. The other women swooped down on her, hugging her and kissing her cheeks. Roxanne tolerated it, knowing that soon enough, she’d never have to see any of them again.
After that, the other women shooed her from the basement, insisting she go home and rest. She didn’t need to be told twice. With the cook pot on the passenger seat, she drove home and went straight to the kitchen. When she sniffed the stew, it actually smelled rather good, if a bit spicy. That would be Delilah’s doing, she thought. The woman believed that a few jalapeno flakes in a dish made her a daring chef. Roxanne shook her head at the foolishness of it.
She put the stew on to warm and poured herself a glass of wine. What truly disgusted her about the other women in the church group was the thought that if she hadn’t acted to save herself, she might have ended up just like them.
Idiots. Letting themselves be trapped by laziness and fate.
Roxanne remembered when the doctor had told her she was pregnant the first time. She thought she was going to faint. Dr. Powell had to help her into a chair so she wouldn’t fall on her face. She was sure that Sean, her husband, had tricked her somehow. She wasn’t ready for babies. Wasn’t sure she even wanted them, yet there she was. It wasn’t fair.
I was drowning, and when you’re drowning, you’ll do anything to keep from going under. You can’t blame a drowning victim for simply wanting to live.
When the stew was ready, she heaped a good-size portion into a bowl and ate on the sofa while looking through travel brochures. She’d been collecting them for months, and now that a year had passed it was time to move on. But to where?
An hour later, still as undecided as before, she put the rest of the stew away and the bowl in water to soak. As she did, she remembered the thumb-sized patch of mold on the wall behind the sink. Roxanne got out the bleach from the pantry and scrubbed thoroughly until the wall was immaculate. Afterward, she went upstairs to bed, where she fell into a deep and pleasant sleep.
* * *
Thursday was always grocery day. Roxanne took the car to the Piggly Wiggly with a short shopping list in her pocket.
Living on her own these days, she never spent much time in the grocery store and seldom filled her cart more than a third full. Today was no different, especially since she was anxious to get home to her brochures. She’d been leaning toward moving to New York, but now she was thinking about Europe. She had plenty of time to decide. The house had to be sold before she could leave and that might take months. The idea of another summer in Houston depressed Roxanne, but she was determined to be patient. She’d been patient about dealing with the family. She just had to do it one more time.
There were few enough items in her cart today that Roxanne headed for the express lane. However, on her way over, Jeanette from church cut her off.
She smiled at Roxanne with surprised delight, and she smiled back sunnily, thinking, Pack mule, at the sight of the other woman’s nearly full cart.
“Are you coming to Delilah’s ladies-only lunch this Sunday?” said Jeanette excitedly. “Her roses are coming into bloom and it should be beautiful.”
Roxanne nodded. “She does love those roses.”
“Then you’ll be there?”
I would rather die than be there, Roxanne thought. “I’ll try to be.”
“Did she ask you about the library book drive?”
Anxious to get out of the store and the inane chatter, Roxanne said, “Of course. I’ll put a box or two together this week. Sean and the kids’ books, mostly.”
“Oh,” said Delilah, going quiet. “Will you be all right doing that?”
She took a breath and said, “It’s healthy, don’t you think? Time to let go and move on.”
Jeanette shook her head. “You’re so strong. I don’t know if I could ever do it.”
I am. I am stronger than you, thought Roxanne.
Bored and wanting to get out of the conversation, she glanced at her cart as if she’d forgotten something. “You know, I have some frozen things I should be getting home.”
“Of course, dear. I’ll see you Sunday.”
“Goodbye.”
When she arrived home, Roxanne put away the groceries, heated up some of the beef stew, and froze the rest. Later, when she went to wash her bowl, the patch of mold was back on the wall. A larger patch this time, as big as the palm of her hand.
Annoyed, she wiped it away, this time with ammonia.
To get away from the smell, she went into the living room and pulled books from the shelves, piling them on the sofa. She’d been in a foul mood since running into Jeanette. It was getting harder and harder to maintain a placid public face for these people. That’s why the book drive was such a godsend. The books were one less thing to worry about when she finally escaped to wherever the brochures would take her.
* * *
The next morning the mold patch was back on the wall, larger and thicker than ever. It spread out in all directions, like the branches of a tree. The mold was thickest where the branches separated, with bulges and little hillocks. Looking at the foul mess was like gazing at a toxic cloud in the sky. Roxanne could almost make out shapes in the filth. The sight of it made her feel queasy.
She pulled a bucket and scrub brush from under the sink and got the bleach from the pantry. She mixed it with scalding hot water and tried to wipe the mold off the wall. Where before it had come off easily, this time she had to scrub as hard as she could to dig down through the rancid tree trunk to the wall beneath. Eventually, the mold disappeared under her insistent brushing, but Roxanne saw that she’d damaged the wallpaper. Where two sections met, they now pulled apart, trailing glue like a scab coming off a wound. Worse yet, she found that some of the mold had worked its way into the drywall. Furious, she scraped at it with a butcher knife. When it didn’t come off immediately, she threw open the cupboard looking for something stronger than the bleach and ammonia she’d tried earlier.
And then she saw it.
It was a small glass spice bottle labelled “Garlic Salt.” But what it contained was much stronger stuff. She stared at it and thought of Sean and the kids. She was certain she’d disposed of the poison, yet here was the concoction she’d used that night, in a bottle of the one spice she wouldn’t ever use in a million years. Roxanne took the bottle off the shelf and held it in her hand.
I forgot the date the other day and now this. Things have gone so well up to now. What is it that people say? That some murderers want to be caught? No. I don’t want that, she thought, wondering in a mild panic what else she might have forgotten.
She looked back at the wall, at the shapes in the mess, like silhouettes of animals and people. There were definitely faces forming in the moldy tree branches. Roxanne stared at one in particular.
Sean, she thought.
Now angry as well as scared, she twisted the top off the garlic salt.
Why won’t you stay dead?
She shook the bottle, throwing some of the poison directly onto the moldy face. It bubbled briefly and began to shrink and dissolve. When it was almost gone, Roxanne scrubbed the spot with bleach again. When she was done, she carefully threw the bottle into the kitchen trash and shoved it all the way to the bottom of the bag. Exhausted and sick to her stomach, she went into the living room and pushed the books off the sofa so she could lie down.
She knew she had to be more careful from now on. She’d waited months for people’s obsession with her tragic story to die down. She couldn’t afford any mistakes. Not when she was so close to finally escaping this stupid town and these ridiculous people.
To relax, she looked through the brochures and decided on Paris as her first destination. Between the family’s life insurance and what she would get when she sold the house, Roxanne was sure she’d be able to have a grand life there.
Feeling more relaxed, she went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of chamomile tea.
In bed, she dreamed of the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Élysées. As happy as Paris made her, dark skies dampened her mood. It always looked as if the city was on the verge of rain. Worse, she saw things in the scudding clouds overhead. Silhouettes of animals. A neighbor’s dog. A horse she’d ridden as a child. Human faces, too—some familiar—their features constantly changing in the roiling mist. Their mouths moved as if they were trying to speak, but all Roxanne heard was the rushing of the wind.
* * *
The next morning, mold covered almost the whole wall behind the sink, reaching to the ceiling. Twisted bodies and faces were clearly outlined in thick patches. Her children’s faces. A gnarled mass at the lower corner thrust out like a hand reaching for her.
Her heart was beating so hard that she had to sit down at the kitchen table and catch her breath. She wanted to run from the wretched house. Better yet, burn it to the ground. In her head, she calculated how much insurance she had left in the bank. It wasn’t enough. If she simply left and abandoned the house, the money wouldn’t last for more than a year or two. Besides, simply running would raise suspicions. She’d worked so hard to tamp down gossip, she didn’t want it to start now. No, mold or not, she had to sell the house. Be patient and play the shattered widow and mother for a while longer. But to do so, she’d need a useable kitchen. Between the mold and the damage she’d done to the wall, that was impossible without help.
Roxanne spent half an hour leafing through the phone book before settling on a repairman named Jameson. She called and arranged for him to come by the next morning.
Before retreating to the living room, she reached up and tapped at the mold with a polished fingernail. A few wet bits of it fell away. She reached up and touched her son’s face, then drew her nails across it until his features were unrecognizable. Sean and her daughter’s faces were too high to reach, so she gave up on them. On her way to the sofa, she found bits of the mold stuck to her fingertips. She wiped them clean with a rag, threw it in the trash, and put the bag in the garbage can sitting at the end of the driveway.
* * *
Mr. Jameson arrived at nine the next morning. After a brief, polite greeting, Roxanne led him straight into the kitchen. When he saw the wall, he set down his toolbox and whistled. The mold now crept across the ceiling over the sink.
“I wish you’d called me earlier, ma’am. I might have been able to help before it got this bad.”
“Can you fix it?” Roxanne said.
Jameson frowned for a moment, put on a pair of rubber gloves, and approached the wall. He pinched some of the mold between his fingers, tearing off a narrow section of her son’s corrupt leg, and letting the mess fall into the sink. He pressed his fingertips to the wall and pushed gently. It gave a little. Jameson shook his head.
“I’m not sure I’m going to be able to save the wall right above the sink. It’ll have to get replaced.”
Roxanne swallowed a stab of panic. She didn’t like the idea of a stranger creeping around her house, especially now that she could plainly see her family staring down on her. She wondered what Jameson saw in the mold.
“Are you sure?” she said. “Isn’t there anything else you can do?”
“I can knock some of this down with a chemical wash I have in the truck. But that doesn’t fix things. You see, ma’am, if the mold is this bad by the sink, it’s likely it’s spread. You might have to replace the whole wall.”
No, no, no, no, no, she thought, but said, “How long would that take?”
“If I do it myself, a few days. If I call in a crew, one or two.”
The panic returned, a cold wave that washed through her body. She looked at her dead family and said, “A crew? No. I can’t have people trampling through the house. I need to think.”
“Take your time,” said Jameson. “I’ll get some things from the truck. See if I can clear up some of the mess. You don’t need to be breathing that stuff.”
When he returned, Roxanne sat at the kitchen table and watched him work. Whatever cleaning supplies he had were much stronger than hers. The mold quickly disappeared under the mop he used on the wall and ceiling. Seeing her family vanish from the kitchen, she began to feel like herself again.
She said, “Oh my. That’s much better. Maybe you won’t have to do the whole wall.”
Jameson looked around. “We’ll see. Let’s let this dry for now and I’ll come back tomorrow. This stuff is strong. If anything is going to handle that mess, it’s this.”
Roxanne leaned her elbows on the table, suddenly tired. Still, the clear wall made her smile.
“What do I owe you for today?” she said.
Waving a hand at her, Jameson said, “Nothing. Let’s see where things stand tomorrow.”
“Do you do that with all your customers?”
He shrugged. “It’s a nice town. Why not?”
“Aren’t you afraid someone will cheat you? I mean, you cleaned my wall already. What if it stays clean and I didn’t let you in tomorrow?”
Jameson smiled for the first time since he’d entered the house. “You wouldn’t do something like that. You’re a good person, Mrs. Hill.”
She looked at the man, concerned. “How do you know that? What do you mean?”
As he gathered up some tools, Jameson said, “You don’t remember me, but we were in high school together. You, Sean, and me. It’s how I know you’re a good person. You were nice to me when you didn’t have to be.”
Roxanne wracked her memory and then it came to her. “You’re not Billy Jameson, are you?”
He took off his hat and did a small bow. “Billidiot the Idiot,” he said. “Dumbest kid in our year. I thought it might be why you might have called me. You recognized the name.”
“I didn’t. I’m sorry,” said Roxanne, relaxing. If he was the Billy she remembered, he was as thick as tar. “But now I’m glad it was you. If I’m going to have someone in my home, it should be an old friend.”
Jameson nodded as the picked up his equipment. “See? A nice person.”
Roxanne walked him outside and they agreed for him to come by the next morning.
“With luck, that will be the end of it,” Jameson said.
She waved to him as started the truck. “Thank you, Billy.”
Back inside, she examined the kitchen. There were black smears here and there where the mop had wiped away the mold but, aside from that, the wall didn’t look too bad at all.
She sat down at the table again and flipped through the phone book to the Realtors section until she found the company that had originally sold them the house. She circled the name and decided to call them tomorrow afternoon about putting the place up for sale.
With the excitement over, Roxanne wanted a cup of tea. She put the kettle on, but when she opened the cupboard to get the teabags, she knocked over something leaning against the box—the jar labeled “Garlic Salt”. Her breath caught in her throat. She was positive she’d thrown the stuff away yesterday. But, no, that had been yet another mistake. No longer in the mood for tea, she turned off the burner and took the bottle to the garbage can and, again, pushed it to the bottom of the trash bag. She put the top of the can on firmly before going back inside.
That afternoon, Roxanne went to see a movie. She couldn’t bear being stuck in the house right then.
When she got home, the wall was still clean. She made tea and called a travel agent to set an appointment over the weekend to talk about Paris. Tea in hand, she took her brochures upstairs to bed with her and stayed there for the rest of the day.
* * *
The mold was back in the morning, along with the taunting faces of her family. When Jameson arrived and saw the state of the wall, he set down his toolbox and made a grunting noise.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hill. I’ve never seen a mold patch like this before. I’m going to have to replace the drywall.”
She stood behind him, hands clasped nervously. “The whole wall?”
“I won’t know till I take down the worst of it over the sink.”
“All right,” she said. “But I’d like you to do the job yourself. I couldn’t bear to have the house full of strangers and noise right now.”
“Okay then. I’ll pick up some drywall sheets and can start tomorrow morning.”
“And it will take a couple of days, you said?”
He looked at the wall. “That depends on the damage.”
“Of course.”
Throughout their conversation, Roxanne’s attention was pulled back to the edges of the mold. She could swear that it pulsed and changed shape, as did the large mounds of filth that were her family’s bodies, so that it looked as if they were writhing in pain.
Am I crazy or has it always been moving and it’s something else I missed?
Then a dark thought hit her. If she could see the movement, could Jameson? Was he able to make out Sean and the kid’s contorting bodies and was keeping it a secret? She looked at him. He didn’t seem any different, but she had to be sure.
She pointed to a patch on the side and said, “It’s strange how the mold is like clouds. Full of shapes. Do you see the arm over there?”
Jameson looked where she pointed for a moment, then scratched his chin. “You’re right. It’s an arm. Isn’t that funny?”
“And a leg over there.”
“I see it.”
Roxanne pointed to where the mold touched the ceiling. “And up there. It’s almost like a face. A man’s face, don’t you think?”
“It’s funny you mention that one,” he said. “I actually noticed it earlier but didn’t mention it on account of it being sort of strange.”
“Strange how?”
Jameson tilted his head up and looked again. “Well, it looks a little—and I feel funny saying it—but it looks kind of like Sean. I swear those are his eyes.”
Roxanne felt a cold weight in her stomach. She wasn’t hallucinating. They were there. Her whole family looking down on her. Spying on her. And now Jameson had seen them too. Her mind raced, trying to figure out what it meant and what she might have to do about it. But she couldn’t think of a thing.
Jameson frowned. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just, I was surprised. It wasn’t right, though, me bringing up bad memories like that.”
“Don’t worry,” said Roxanne. “I was the one who brought it up.”
“I guess,” he said, still frowning. He picked up his toolbox and headed back out of the house in a rush. Roxanne followed him to the truck.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she said.
“I’ll be here. And, like I said, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t think anything of it.”
As he drove away, Roxanne thought, He knows what happened. If he doesn’t go to the police now he will soon. I’m going to have to kill him.
She went into the kitchen and looked around, hunting for just the right implement. Rummaging through the drawers she found the butcher knife, a large pair of shears, and a hammer. But none of those would do. She would be caught instantly. She needed something subtler.
Maybe the skillet? I could say that he attacked me. No. She recalled that Brainless Billy had always been a good boy. If he’d done anything inappropriate with anyone else in town, she would have heard about it.
Roxanne put down the skillet and went into the living room and stood by the front window looking over the row of houses she hated. Same lawns. Same mailboxes. Children’s bikes on the lawns. It made her sick.
Later, she wondered if she might be overreacting to Jameson’s words. Even if he suspected something, all he had for evidence was some strange mold. And he wouldn’t have said anything about that if she hadn’t prodded him. After going over it in her head a few more times, she thought, No. He’s no threat.
Later, she called the travel agent’s office and bought a one-way ticket to Paris on a flight leaving at the end of the month. Her mood lifted instantly. When the wall was repaired, she could let the realtor handle everything else. She didn’t need to be here. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. It would be her first time on a plane.
I’m doing it. I’m really, finally doing it.
Though her mood was light when she went to bed, her dreams were troubled. One by one, each member of her dead family stepped from the wall and fed her the same poison she’d used on them. Jameson held her and let it happen.
Roxanne woke early and went into the bathroom. While washing up, she found small patches of mold under her nails and on her fingertips. She scrubbed her hands clean with alcohol and hot water.
* * *
Knowing she wouldn’t be in the mood to cook later, Roxanne took the stew from the freezer and left it out to defrost. Jameson arrived at nine, his truck weighed down with gray slabs of drywall. In the kitchen, he carefully measured the area over the sink, making notes on a pad he kept in the breast pocket of his overalls.
“Would you like some tea?” said Roxanne, watching his every move, waiting to see if he reacted to the figures protruding from the mold. Her family moved all the time now. Hands grasped at the air. Mouths gaped as if screaming. Yet Jameson didn’t appear to notice any of it.
“No thanks,” he told her. “I’m more of a coffee person.”
“I have that too. It’s instant, but I could put on some water.”
As he spread out a tape measure across the wall, he said, “Thank you. That’d be real nice.”
She went to the cupboard for the Folgers. When she opened the door, it was there again. The little bottle of garlic salt. It felt like there was a frozen lump in her stomach. She put a hand on the counter to steady herself and took out the coffee. Roxanne smiled, but inside she was screaming.
Someone is doing this to me. I threw this away. Twice. I know it. Someone keeps putting it back.
She glanced at Jameson. He had his back to her.
Besides me, who else has been in here? Who else has seen the faces? No one but idiot Billy. What kind of game is he playing?
As she heated water on the stove for coffee, she glanced at the skillet. He still had his back to her.
I could do it. Right now. Scratch my face. Tear my dress. Tell everyone it was self-defense. I could do it.
Jameson turned then and, seeing his face, Roxanne’s courage flagged. No. There had to be another way. Some way to be absolutely sure.
On the wall, her family writhed and shrieked.
Standing on the edge of the sink, Jameson picked at the mold that touched the ceiling. The lump in Roxanne’s stomach tightened. He was practically face-to-face with Sean. Yet he didn’t appear to notice anything. She relaxed at the thought that Jameson was simply too dumb to see the grotesque miracle right in front of his face.
When the water was ready, she poured some over the coffee crystals and offered Jameson the cup. She considered pouring herself one too when Jameson said, “Your family got sick. Isn’t that right?”
Roxane held herself very still. She turned to him and leaned on the counter, trying to effect a relaxed air.
He knows. The bastard knows. He’s playing with me.
“Yes,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
He frowned with concern. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“It’s fine. But I’m curious about what made you think about it.”
He turned the tape measure nervously over and over in his hands. “My sister and the kids went apple picking and ate a bunch of them. Got real sick. Maybe the apples were bad or maybe it was pesticide. Anyway, they ended up in the hospital.”
Roxanne raised her eyebrows in feigned concern. “I hope they’re all right.”
“They’re fine. Though little Andy had to stay an extra day on account of he kept throwing up.”
“But he’s better now?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hill. He’s just fine.”
“How wonderful.”
Her mind raced. Was this part of his game, bringing up pesticide? She looked back at the garlic salt on the shelf, thinking, I have to know. I have to be sure. What if he really is just an idiot?
Jameson said, “I hope you don’t mind something.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, this job is so odd that I mentioned it to a couple of folks, including Jeff Delano. Do you know him? He was in school with us too. These days, he’s a cop.”
“No. I don’t know him,” said Roxanne quietly.
“He helps me out with jobs sometimes. You know, on the weekend for extra money. Jeff might come by in the afternoon. That is, if it’s okay with you.”
Roxanne sat down at the kitchen table wondering what it would take to get her family’s bodies exhumed. Not the word of an idiot, certainly, but perhaps the testimony of a busybody cop.
“It’s perfectly all right,” she said.
“Did you hurt your hand?” said Jameson.
She looked down at her fingers. There was mold under her nails and smeared on her fingertips again. Using dish soap, she washed them in the sink and said, “How funny. I must have touched the wall when I came in.”
“You’ll want to be careful. Mold like that is bad for you.”
Yes. He is playing. Being coy until the police arrive. I should have seen it coming.
She wished she’d followed her instincts and simply abandoned the house, letting the realtor deal with repairs and the sale. She could have flown to Paris days ago instead of being trapped at home between a dimwitted monster and her screaming family. Still, she wasn’t caught yet.
While Jameson made drywall calculations in his book, Roxanne put the stew on the stove over a low flame.
She said, “Do you like stew, Mr. Jameson?”
He glanced at the pot. “Call me Billy.” “Thank you, Billy. Call me Roxanne. So, do you like beef stew?” “I do. A lot.” “Then you’ll have to stay for lunch.” “Thank you, Roxanne. That’d be nice.” “What time did you say your policeman friend was coming by?” “This afternoon sometime.”
She glanced at the kitchen clock and said, “Maybe we should eat an early lunch so we’ll be ready for him.”
Jameson said, “I wouldn’t mind that. I didn’t get any breakfast.” “Then we’ll feast as soon as possible.”
He bustled around her in the kitchen while she stirred the stew on the stove, careful not to let it burn on the bottom. When it was warm and the comforting smell filled the kitchen, Roxanne took a bottle from the cupboard and poured the whole thing into the stew.
“What’s that?” Jameson said.
She stirred the pot, relaxed and resigned. Jameson had won their little game. The police were on the way.
“Just something to add a little spice to our lunch,” she said.
Roxanne ladled out two bowls and they sat together at the table. Jameson dug his spoon in eagerly and ate big mouthfuls of the stew. Roxanne left her spoon beside her bowl and stared up at the wall where her family screamed at her.
Jameson cleared his throat. “The other day, when I first got here, I saw a bunch of travel brochures in the living room. Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes, I am. Paris.”
Jameson stopped eating and leaned back in his chair.
“Wow. I’ve never been farther than Galveston. Will you tell me about Paris?”
“I haven’t been there yet.”
“Yeah, but you know a lot more about it than I do.”
“I suppose I do.”
Roxanne sat quietly, a finger on her spoon, her mind racing for a way out, but her mind was blank. The police were on the way. If she ran, Jameson would no doubt stop her. Yes. That’s exactly what he’ll do, she thought.
Jameson said, “Jeff would love this stew. Can we save him some?”
She didn’t think about it for long. “What do you say we finish it ourselves and I’ll give him the recipe.”
“Sure. But you’re not eating.”
Roxanne looked at the mold on her fingers and up at her family. She picked up her spoon. “I wasn’t sure I was going to, but I think I will after all.”
With a half-full mouth, Jameson said, “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get to Paris?”
She thought for a moment. “I’ll check into my hotel and go out onto the balcony where I’ll have a view of the Eiffel Tower. I’ll breathe in the air and think, I’m free.”
She took a bite of the stew. It was just as good as she remembered.
They ate and talked like old friends until the pot was empty.