She sets the menu down and cocks her head to the side. “So did you bring me here to show me what a good guy you are? Hiring all these women to strip for you because they want to? To show me how because of you they keep all the control?”
I count to ten. This isn’t how I want this evening to go. “I wanted to have dinner with you. And I thought you’d want to get away from Rockcliffe House for a night. That’s why I brought you here. That’s all.”
That gives her pause. She lowers her lashes but doesn’t quite apologize.
I signal for the waitress who brings over a bottle of wine from my private collection. Cilla’s quiet while she pours.
“Do you know what you want to have to eat?” I ask her.
She looks up. “The filet mignon, well done, with roasted potatoes and a salad please.”
“I’ll have the same, but make my steak rare.”
“Right away,” the waitress says and leaves with our menus.
“You’re hungry,” I comment.
“Dinner’s late.”
“It’s not your little adventure that worked up an appetite, is it?” I ask, wanting her to know that I know.
She flushes, blinks rapidly and looks around the room. “Where’s the bathroom?” she asks, rising.
I nod in the direction of the lady’s room. Her heels click as she walks away and I scan the patrons of the restaurant, making note of who’s watching her, who’s with whom, memorizing alliances. These are dangerous men. This is a dangerous world. And when Cilla returns to the table, I wonder for a moment why I’ve brought her here. In public. Because I know each of these men is, in turn, watching me. Taking inventory of what’s mine.
We don’t speak, but drink the wine instead. She’s clearly anxious under my gaze, but I don’t mind that. I like it, in fact.
When the waitress brings dinner, Cilla eats with gusto. I make a mental note to tell Helen to feed her regularly whether she asks for meals or not.
“What were you looking for?” I ask her.
She doesn’t pretend to not know what I’m talking about and I respect her for that. She puts her fork down, chewing on a piece of meat as she considers her answer. “I wanted to know where you went,” she finally says after swallowing.
“But you knew where I went.”
She stares at me, uncertain what I mean, but perhaps suspecting.
“You wrote a piece on Rockcliffe House two years ago. You didn’t use your full name when you published. You used Hawk instead. Why?”
She clearly didn’t know I knew this, but I look into the background of every person I come in contact with. It’s just I didn’t expect to find what I did on her.
“That was a fluff piece. A ghost story. I want to be a serious writer.”
“So you were looking for my sister’s ghost out there?”
She chokes on the bite she just put into her mouth and gulps half her glass of water to wash it down.
“I don’t like wasting words, Cilla. I already told you that.”
“I wanted to know why you’d come back like you had last night. Barefoot but for your socks. It was strange. And you were drunk. I thought you were, at least.”
“I was when I went out there.”
“What happened to your face?” she asks. “The scar?”
I know what she’s talking about. I pick up the bottle and refill her glass, then take a sip of mine, set my glass down and lean back in my chair before answering.
“That’s the cut my uncle got in before I stuck a knife in his gut.”
Her mouth falls open and her eyes go wide.
I grin. “It was a long time ago and he deserved it. Why do you look shocked? You know this already. It’s not a secret. Everyone in this place knows what I did.”
“Why did you get out of prison after only four years?”
“I served my time.”
“No, you didn’t. You only served four years.”
I lean forward, pick up my last forkful of meat and stick it into my mouth, crushing the tender flesh between my teeth.
“My uncle deserved to die. I wasn’t the only one who thought so.” I wipe my mouth and set my napkin on my plate.
Cilla slumps back in her chair, picks up her glass and drinks the last of it. I signal to the waitress. “Get us another bottle.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did he do?” Cilla asks, like she’s barely realized the waitress was just here.
I study her for a very long time before replying with less emotion than I thought I could. “He’d been raping my sister for a long time. She was fifteen when she died.”
Cilla’s face goes white. That detail she didn’t know. Not many people do. I don’t know why I just told her.
I unclench my fist and rub my hand across my mouth.