Page 46 of A Thin Line

She’d also supplied a tray of assorted crackers, and I realized that maybe Edna didn’t spoil Sinclair as much as I’d thought she did. Instead, she just seemed to naturally be what I thought of as the perfect hostess. She seemed to genuinely enjoy doing nice things for him—and me—which stirred more warm feelings in myself than I maybe should have allowed.

But I was growing to love this woman.

As I poured dressing on my salad, I said, “About the laptop…”

“Doesn’t it work?”

“It does, but…I think maybe I shouldn’t use it.”

“Why ever not, dear?”

I speared a chunk of cheese and lettuce and kept my eyes focused there. “Because it belongs to Mr. Whittier’s wife—or, um, ex-wife?”

“What?” Edna started laughing. “Mr. Whittier’s never been married. Why would you think that?”

“Because the desktop background says the words ‘Mrs. Sinclair Whittier.’ Why would someone claim it as theirs in that way if they weren’t married to him?”

Again, Edna chuckled, shaking her head. “That’s the laptop Mr. Whittier used to let a woman named Natasha use when she visited. Apparently, she felt like their relationship was more serious than Mr. Whittier did. She’s lucky he didn’t see it.”

“Oh.”

“Then again, maybe he did. That might be part of why she’s not here anymore”

I took a bite of my salad as an excuse to not talk but I found so many strange emotions swirling through my brain. I felt a tinge of jealousy, which was bizarre, because even though I found Sinclair irresistibly attractive, I did not have designs on him. Irritation was another emotion bubbling below the surface that, for the work I was doing, I got someone else’s used item rather than something new.

But, logically, I knew everything I was feeling was silly. Why would they waste money on a new laptop when there was a perfectly good used one? I certainly wouldn’t have done that, even if I’d had extra money—but couldn’t they have removed that woman’s traces before giving it to me to use?

After I swallowed, I asked, “Would it be okay if I removed that background?”

“Heavens, yes. I guarantee Mr. Whittier would not be happy if he saw it.”

And what I didn’t tell Edna was that I didn’t want him to think I’d put it there. In fact, I’d already let my guard down, a stupid move in and of itself. I really needed to remember that the man I was working for was my worst enemy.

When Edna had told me dinner that evening would be served in the dining room, I worried that might mean I had to dress more formally, even though she hadn’t said so—but I didn’t own anything extravagant and I hadn’t even packed all the clothes I owned. In fact, I realized as I pondered my predicament, I hadn’t even brought my winter coat, much less a jacket.

So I grabbed one of my light summery dresses and put it on with sandals and headed down. I’d seen inside the dining room every time I went to the kitchen but didn’t realize until I entered it just how breathtaking it was. The windows faced west and, since Sinclair wasn’t in the dining room when I got there, I walked over there first. The yard outside the windows, like on the east side, was ensconced by three walls—the long garage at the back that ended close to the sidewalk, this wall that ran north to south and had several rooms I’d never seen, and the wall of the west wing. The yard was spectacular, thanks to Henry’s gardening skills and pride in his work.

I turned to take in the room and once again had that sinking sensation that I didn’t belong here. The chandelier was unlike any of the others I’d seen in the mansion thus far—it was like a shower of lights raining down rather than a series of curved arms. The table was a dark polished wood with a velvet runner and a vase with sprays of dried plants, and the seats looked like they were made of gold—shiny and uncomfortable looking. The floor was white marble with gold veins, also polished to perfection. Against one wall was a side table and above it was a large round mirror.

I didn’t feel like I’d be able to eat in here comfortably.

“Ms. Miller.”

Sinclair’s voice echoing in the quiet space unexpectedly made me jump—but I turned around, hoping I seemed composed enough. “Mr. W.”

Only the slight twitch of the corner of his lip gave away that he didn’t like when I called him that. He still wore the dark gray suit he’d had on this morning with the blue and gray striped tie. The accents of blue seemed to emphasize the color of his eyes—making him seem colder…and yet more mysterious. “Have a seat.”

“Where?”

“I’ll be sitting here,” he said, indicating the head of the table, setting to the side a black leather portfolio holding papers and a pen. “You can sit anywhere you like, but I’d like you close enough that we can talk. I have the contract here so we can discuss it.”

I could have been defiant and sat as far away as I thought I could get away with, but I instead sat in a chair right next to his at a diagonal—but I chose the side with the mirror so that it would be behind me. It seemed high enough that I wouldn’t have to look at myself eat, but I didn’t want to take that chance.

Before I could pull the chair out all the way, he said, “Allow me.” After he moved the chair far enough from the table that I could sit, I did so, and he helped push the chair in. I found it odd that he did things like that for me when he’d made it quite clear that he planned to punish me for what I’d done. Maybe he was doing it to keep me off guard.

After I sat, he did so as well. He asked, “Would you like to give me an update on the dungeon project?”

I almost laughed at how he put it but instead worried that what I was about to say might change his mind—because, if I liked the work, how much punishment could it actually be? Still, I was going to take that chance. “I think I’m going to enjoy it.”

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