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I slide back into my seat and give her a winning smile. She doesn’t return it.

“Bathroom, huh?” she asks, pouring herself another tipple of wine. “Long time.”

She’s slurring, but only a little. I take the glass from her. “You need to eat, Lacie.”

Staring at me, she picks up a knife and slams it into the thick welt of meat between us. Then she stands.

“I’m not fucking hungry.”

I give her my most lordly frown. “Don’t be silly. I’m paying for your dinner, so you should eat it.”

“I’m not a child to be talked down to,” she says, her eyes slipping away uncertainly to her hands. Surely her goodie-girl training is warring with the will to disobey, to throw things, to get angry.

I almost want to goad her into biting back. Come on, I think, fight me.

“When you tantrum like one, you give me no choice. Are you quite done?”

Her eyes flash. “I saw the way that waitress looked at you. Don’t think I’m stupid.”

Knitting my hands under my chin, I tip my head and give her my hungriest glare. “And is that what you want to be, then? A little bite? Something to take the edge off?”

Lacie sucks a breath through her teeth, mortified but almost needful. I think of how accepting she was when I tipped the wineglass to her lips, how she softened like she needed the firm hand of absolution. “Stop,” she whispers.

“Why? Afraid of feeling something you shouldn’t?” That was cruel of me, but I can’t help it—blame it on the snappish high I get after eating.

Lacie sinks back into her chair, quieted but smoldering.

“Lyle is losing his grip,” I continue.

“His girlfriend just died horrifically,” Lacie snarls, slicing a piece of rare meat. “Of course he is.”

I lean back in my seat with crossed arms and watch her. “To that extent?”

“And we’re still no closer to finding out who did it.” Lacie shovels a piece of steak into her mouth and rapidly cuts another piece. She eats that, too.

“Lacie.”

“You made some big promises of helping,” she says, her words muffled as she chews. She cuts and eats another piece of meat. “So fucking help.”

“Lacie, stop—”

Another piece. Cow gore drips down her chin, sinew stuck in her teeth. It’s like she’s trying to fill an impulse: desire, feed, fill. Red paints her skin and she looks so much like Caroline that I shudder. “And then you were getting into a fight with Lyle about his dead girlfriend. Sure looks like you know what the fuck is going on.”

“Lacie, stop it.”

She leans forward and spits the masticated steak on top of what is left on the serving dish. It lumps together, pale pink and gray and sickly. When she looks up, her eyes blaze. “How do I know you weren’t going to kill Lyle in that hallway? How do I know I didn’t just save his fucking life?”

I stand up. “That’s enough, Lacie,” I hiss, but she’s on her feet, too, now, her fingers tight around her knife.

There it is. There’s the anger I want. But it’s directed the wrong way.

“You know that’s not what was happening.” Admitting what was happening would be telling her my biggest secret, and I can’t bear to do that to her. It would ruin her, and I …

I want her. Goddamn it.

“Then what’s happening, Marcella? Tell me what the fuck is going on, since you seem so fond of enlightening me.” Tears gather behind her glasses, flashing and bright.

“Lacie. I agree that something is wrong here. You know what you’ve seen.” I lower my voice to a bare whisper. “Lyle’s noticed the bite marks, too.”