Page 93 of Ticket Out

James thought back to the state of Mrs. Crane’s body, and realized his hands were in hard, white-knuckled fists.

chapterthirty-nine

The cheerful whistling wasall for show.

Gabriella knew Mr. Knife had snuck into the kitchen first to listen silently, trying to work out what she was doing in the pantry.

She had been sitting quietly, and she heard the faint scuff of his shoe on the kitchen floor, and the faint creak of the wooden floorboards when he’d snuck in.

Then she’d heard him retreat after he’d spent some time listening, and then the bang of the door, the whistling.

He was giving himself away.

His gung-ho, upbeat, aren’t-I-funny demeanor was a complete lie. This wasn’t a game to him.

He could also turn his anger on and off. He had lost his temper earlier when she hadn’t immediately followed his order to go into the kitchen, then stood, calm and cool-eyed while she’d picked up the groceries that had spilled in the aftermath of that temper tantrum.

He was both controlling and out of control.

She didn’t think she’d ever encountered anyone like him before, but she had to find a way to outwit him.

She was getting to her feet when he unlocked and opened the door in one quick move, as if to see if he could catch her out.

“I need to go to the toilet,” she told him, quite truthfully.

He blinked at that, obviously not expecting it.

After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped back, and gestured with his hand, which was still clutching the knife. No subtlety there.

“Maybe I should have locked you in the lav,” he said.

“Maybe,” she agreed. She stopped in the middle of the kitchen. “Which way?” she asked.

He pointed with the knife again, and she walked in that direction, finding a tiny alcove leading to a narrow, white water closet with a wooden door. The lock was a hook closure.

She could hear him humming just outside. It was meant to unnerve her, and it did.

She washed her hands and stepped out, and he sniffed her hair.

“Curry?” he asked.

She lifted her shoulders. “The pantry smells of it. Maybe Devenish was a fan of Indian food as well as Italian.”

He pushed her ahead of him back to the kitchen, and walked to the pantry, sniffed it. Then gave a shrug as he must have smelled for himself she was telling the truth. “Get cooking.”

She moved to the cupboards, pulling out bowls and a whisk, as well as a rectangular glass dish she thought would work for the tiramisu.

The carton of eggs he’d bought was on the table, along with a bottle of marsala, which had a thin layer of dust on it.

“Looks like Devenish had the booze the recipe says is best to use.” He tapped the bottle with the knife then sat back down.

Again, she found the fact that she had something to focus on a great comfort. It helped to keep her hands steady.

She worked through the steps of the recipe in her head, while Mr. Knife set the Romeo Salta book on the table in front of him and glanced at it occasionally as if to check she was doing it right.

“Why me?” she asked, even though she knew she should just work quietly, to keep herself safe.

“You kept popping up. It was obvious you were the next one. Finding Sam Nealy. Watching Patty get into my van outside that club. Finding Patty.” He lifted a finger for each point. “Then there you were at that bus stop, when I took a chance to see if I could find you in that place where all the Aussies live. It was fate.”

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