Page 153

The lock turns after she leaves.

I repeat Juney’s number in my head. I get every digit right, but my palms keep trying to count something else.

I start again.

By the third attempt, Heather’s seven has replaced one of Juney’s numbers. I press my marked hands into the blanket and begin from the start.

CHAPTER 45

Heather

Nineteen days pass before I stop catching Simon’s lips moving over the number he brought home from the grocery store.

He usually does it while he cooks. His mouth works silently over the same shape while his hands chop, stir and arrange. Last night, I asked him to taste the sauce, and the number never came back.

Tonight, he stands at the kitchen counter working on dinner.

I haven’t been back to the restaurant. Mara filed her report, and eventually someone will ask about the woman at the counter. That isn’t a problem for this week.

Jamie sits on the counter beside him, painting the chipped letter on Simon’s bracelet. I’ve already told him twice to keep the paint on the bead instead of Simon’s wrist.

“He keeps moving,” Jamie says. He takes Simon’s hand and pulls it closer between his knees. “Hold still.”

“I’m cooking.” Simon reaches around Jamie for the wooden spoon without moving the wrist trapped in his lap. “Some of us have a function.”

Jamie dips the little brush into red paint. “Mine is making your ugly bracelet less ugly.”

“My bracelet was fine.”

“The S looked like a snake.”

“It’s a fucking S.”

Jamie puts the brush against the bead again. Simon watches the pan.

A month ago, Jamie wanted Simon in the white jacket. Now he’s spent twenty minutes repairing a letter that only needed one drop of paint. Simon complains through all of it and keeps his hand in Jamie’s lap.

Three dolls give one another reasons to stay where I put them.

I sit at the table and watch Simon cut into the chicken. The center is no longer pink. He slides the pieces back into the pan and reaches for the pepper.

“You’re finished with the knife,” I say.

Simon wipes it again before crossing the kitchen. He lays the handle across my palm and waits for me to take it.

“We need a better stone,” he says. “Yours is wearing unevenly.”

I turn the blade beneath the light. “You may choose one the next time we go out.”

“You’re taking him again?” Jamie asks.

“I didn’t say when.” I slide the knife into the guard at my hip. “Finish what you’re doing.”

Jamie bends over Simon’s wrist. The brush leaves a dot of paint on Simon’s skin beside the bead.

Simon looks down. “You had one fucking job.”

“I told you not to move.” Jamie licks his thumb and rubs at the paint.