Chapter 8

The kitchen was quiet that night. The chandelier was dimmed to a soft glow, and the marble counters had been wiped clean. The town car had come back from the courthouse and deposited her at the door at noon, and she had spent the afternoon sitting in the blue-curtained room, watching the light move across the walls.

She had not been back to the kitchen until now.

Ronan was there, standing at the island with a plate in his hands. It was not the chipped plate — that one had been taken by the county attorney as evidence. This one was new, pale porcelain with a thin gold rim, an almost identical twin to the one that had caused everything.

He set the plate on the counter.

"We're having dinner," he said. "Just the house. No guests."

Delia looked at the plate. She looked at the empty kitchen, at the spot on the floor where the chipped plate had fallen. She felt the memory of the slap like a ghost on her cheek — not pain, but the shape of it, the imprint of a moment she had spent four years learning to survive.

"Who's the caterer?" she asked.

Ronan's mouth moved, almost a smile. "No caterer. I ordered out. It's a soup from a place downtown — the one you liked when I asked Hale."

Delia blinked. She had mentioned the soup once, weeks ago, to the man who cooked at the charity event. She had not thought anyone had heard.

The doorbell rang. Ronan went to answer it, and when he came back he was carrying two paper bags that smelled of mushrooms and garlic. He set them on the counter and began unpacking, and for a while the only sounds were the soft clink of bowls and the sound of broth being poured.

Delia stood at the island, watching him work. She did not help. She did not know if she was allowed to just watch.

"Sit," Ronan said, pointing at a stool.

She sat. It was the same stool Nessa's trouser cuff had caught on the night of the gala. Delia noticed, but she did not say anything.

They ate in silence for a while. The soup was warm and good, and the house was quiet. The ceiling-high windows showed the city lights glittering far below, and the marble floor gleamed in the dim light, clean and bare.