Page 88 of Ticket Out

Her heart gave a leap, and she fought back nausea. “Where is he?” she managed to croak out.

“In the garden,” he said cheerfully. “I didn’t want him inside, stinking up the place. He was very conveniently having a new pond dug, so I simply threw him in and covered him over with the pile of soil very helpfully piled to one side.”

That’s where she’d end up, too, she guessed. Unless she found a way out of this.

She stood, trying to work out what to do.

“Kitchen’s this way,” he said, gripping her shoulder.

He was playing a jovial role, but the bite of his fingers told a different story. She didn’t understand what he wanted, why he was playing some kind of part.

She looked down at where he gripped her so hard, and after a moment, he released her.

“This way.” He gave her a shove between the shoulder blades, causing her to stagger and she lost her hold on one of the shopping bags.

As the fruit and brown packages rolled across the floor, she heard him draw in a deep breath, as if struggling for control, and she went very still, one hand against the wall for balance.

It seemed to her that violence could erupt at any moment.

He was a man with very little control over his temper, and even though this mess was his fault, he would take it out on her.

The look he shot her was venomous, but he straightened and nodded tightly to the spilled items. “Pick them up and put them in the kitchen.”

He stepped back, arms folded, and watched her while she bent to put the apples, the lemons and the coffee back in the bag. It was lucky she hadn’t dropped the bag with the mascarpone and the Savoiardi biscuits, or it would have been much messier.

She stood and he waved impatiently to the right. She walked in the direction he indicated, turning down a passage and then through an open door into a kitchen that smelled of fried bacon and toast.

The sink was full of dishes, and there was a plate with bacon grease and crumbs on the table.

“Perhaps you could clean up, and then make whatever it was you were planning on making.” He flicked his fingers.

She put the bags down on the table, and took out the tub of mascarpone. “This needs to go in the fridge.”

“What is it?” He moved over and opened the fridge for her, and she saw it was nearly empty. Mr. Knife had cleaned Paul Devenish out.

“Special Italian cream for my tiramisu.”

“That’s what you’re going to make?” he frowned. “I’ve never heard of it.”

She shrugged.

Silence stretched between them.

“Well, you better hope I like it,” he said.

“It’s a complicated dish that takes hours,” she said.

“I don’t believe you.” He leaned against the fridge with his arms crossed.

“Look it up, there are enough recipe books there.” She pointed to the shelf she’d spotted on the other side of the kitchen.

He blinked at her, then moved over to the shelf.

“The Pleasures of Italian Cooking by Romeo Salta,” she told him. “I’ve never read it myself, but I’ve heard of it. And I’m sure it’ll have a tiramisu recipe.”

He slid the book off the shelf, paged through it.

“Coffee, biscuits, eggs, booze and cream,” he said. “It sounds good.”

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