Saylor has been quiet through this entire exchange, mechanically eating her soup while shooting glances at the carving knife. Ican see the wheels turning in her head, weighing options, building courage.
I catch her eye and nod almost imperceptibly toward Leroy, then glance meaningfully at the knife.Do it, I mouth silently when the others aren’t looking.Take it.
She looks uncertain, so I try again.For your father, I mouth, attempting to be encouraging.
“So,” Leroy says, apparently deciding to try charm over aggression. “Saylor, right? You’re even prettier than your photos suggested. Peter talked about you constantly.”
Saylor’s spoon freezes halfway to her mouth. “Oh really? You knew my father?”
There’s my girl. I can see she’s starting to toy with him.
“Knew him? Hell, I was there when we killed him.” Leroy’s smile is pure cruelty. “Watched him bleed out like the pathetic waste of space he was.”
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees. I set down my spoon very carefully.
“That’s an interesting dinner conversation choice,” I observe.
But Leroy is warming to his theme, apparently mistaking Saylor’s silence for weakness. “Poor bastard.” His laugh is like broken glass. “Should have seen his face when he realized he was going to die.”
Saylor’s knuckles are white around her spoon. I shift slightly in my chair, ready to intervene if necessary, but something in her actions—or lack of actions—tells me to wait.
“You want to know what his last words were?” Leroy leans forward as much as his restraints allow. “He said—”
The carving knife is in Saylor’s hand before Leroy finishes the sentence.
“I know what he said,” she says with deadly calm. “I was there when you killed my father.”
She drives the blade straight through Leroy’s hand, pinning it to the armrest with a wet thunk that booms through the dining room. Blood spurts immediately, painting the white tablecloth in abstract patterns that would make an amateur painter jealous.
Leroy’s scream tears through the dining room, all his aristocratic composure cracking like expensive china. The sound bounces off the chandelier and seems to multiply, filling the room with harmonic agony.
“Oops,” Saylor says conversationally, but her face has gone completely white. “That looks like it hurts.”
She’s gripping the edge of the table now, her knuckles white as she stares at the blood still pumping from Leroy’s impaled hand. Her throat works like she’s trying to swallow something back down, and I can see the exact moment nausea hits her.
Come on, love, I think, watching her jaw clench with determination.You can do this. Fight through it.
She takes a shaky breath, closes her eyes for a second, and I think she’s got it under control.Good girl. That’s it. Show them what you’re made of.
But then Leroy jolts in his chair, and the movement sends a fresh spurt of blood across the white tablecloth. Saylor’s eyes snap open, focus on the crimson spreading like spilled wine, and her face goes from pale to green.
“Oh shit,” she whispers.
I’m already lunging forward when she starts to topple, catching her just before she can plant her face in the butternut squash bisque.
“Hans,” I call, lifting Saylor into my arms. “Keep our guests company. I’ll be back shortly.”
“What about his hand?” Jack asks, staring at the blood still dripping from Leroy’s impaled appendage.
“What about it?” I adjust my grip on Saylor, her head lolling against my shoulder. “Consider it an appetizer.”
I carry her from the dining room while Leroy continues screaming things like, “You fucking psycho bitch!” and “I’ll shove that knife so far up your ass you’ll taste steel!”
Hans’s voice follows us up the stairs as he tries to console our guests. “Is not so bad,” he’s saying in his thick accent. “Lots of blood makes everything look worse than it is. Here, try some bread. Very good bread. Wren makes from scratch.”
The screaming stops abruptly, replaced by muffled sounds of appreciation.
“See? Much better when mouth is full of carb.”
