“Of course,” I said, hoping my smile hadn’t faltered at the thought of the bland, underspiced casserole of waxy vegetables and soggy Tater Tots.
Karma had found me, and it was hardly fair. How was I supposed to know I had been attempting petty revenge on the wrong person?
More importantly, how was I supposed to ask Malone who he really was with Mrs. Q around?
“Come on in,” I said.
Mrs. Q entered carrying the casserole. How she’d managed to get down the steps with her hands full, I was afraid to ask.
“I’ll be right over as soon as I change clothes,” Malone said.
“Oh, is this your kitten?” Mrs. Q asked once she’d put the dish down on the table.
“Yep.”
“What’s his name?”
“It’s a she, and she doesn’t have a name yet.”
Because she’s not going to be my cat for very long.Naming animals meant keeping animals, even I knew that.
Note to self: Look up shelter hours for tomorrow.
I took three of my four plates from the cabinet in the kitchen and prayed I had enough clean silverware. “Want a cat, Mrs. Q? She’d be good company for you.”
“No, dear. She’ll probably outlive me, and that’s not fair to her. No, you keep her. She’ll be good company foryou.”
Well played.
At this rate I was going to name the cat Hot Potato because no one wanted to keep her.
“Honey, I’m home,” Malone sang as he entered the door I’d left unlocked for him.
My heart squeezed. All those years with Ken, and he’d never once made that joke.
Stop it, Stella. This man is not who he says he is.
But at least he wasn’t a cheater.
That you know of.
To quell the arguments in my head, I took a bag of salad from the fridge and opened it with a bit too much force. Romaine shot up and then rained down like confetti.
“It’s okay—we don’t need a salad,” Mrs. Q said. “There are vegetables in the casserole.”
“Good point,” I said as I picked up the lettuce that had flown all over the little kitchen. “I thought I’d be semi-fancy, but the universe had other plans.”
“Hey, let me help you with that,” Malone said as he bent to pick up lettuce from the floor. “Besides, I brought a bottle of wine. That can be our fancy.”
“Thanks, Malone,” I said. As his last name met my tongue, I remembered that I didn’t know for sure he was a Malone. Probably? Maybe? A preliminary search between homework and jury research had shown that Blake Malone did, indeed, have a cousin of approximately the same age. More research showed that Blake’s father and the cousin’s father were twins, which might’ve explained why they looked so much alike.
The cousin even lived in California, which would explain why Malone had said he didn’t plan to be here long. Oddly, I couldn’t find a picture of the cousin anywhere, and if I couldn’t find a picture of someone on Pedro Pascal’s internet? That person worked very hard to make sure they couldn’t be found.
Also, even if I’d found a picture, that wouldn’t explain why he’d answered to Blake. I itched to know the answer to that question, but something told me not to have the discussion in front of Mrs. Q. He wouldn’t be as forthcoming with her involved.
“Silverware?” he asked as he washed his hands.
I pointed toward the top drawer, then opened a cabinet and reached for stemless wineglasses. My kitchen was so tiny, Malone and I backed into each other. He grinned, but I must have been looking at him too speculatively because his smile faded and he mouthed, “What?”
