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Back downstairs in the kitchen, however, there is ground coffee and a mocha by the stove. Muscle memory guides me to unscrew the body of the pot, fill the bottom with water and tap the basket neatly flat with coffee grounds.
I put the Sig on the counter and I light the stove under the little pot, and a memory bubbles up.
Mamma made coffee in a mocha every single day. Whenever I tried to use one, sooner or later I would let it overheat. You could buy a new washer to seal them between the top and the bottom, to replace the one that hardened when it overheated, but the coffee would never taste the same again.
This morning, with the rain pelting and pattering outside, I timed the coffee perfectly and I don’t know if I ever had a cup that tasted so good. I take the first cup in three slow gulps there by the counter.
Then I pour the second cup, and walk the cup and saucer into the living room area, over to the armchair by the fireplace.
How I didn’t realize before then, I will never know.
Before I turned around, I was already shaking my head, just waiting for the hammer to fall.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Are you drying off okay now, Angel?”
In the other armchair, the one that had its back to me, the Warrior lounges, sprawled in his gorgeous suit and vest with his tie and his tailored white shirt undone.
His eye glints as he rolls a tumbler of whisky in his hand. The bottle he had in the house and an empty tumbler are on a little glass table by his feet.
He’s been in that chair the whole time. He was there while I sat outside, covered in freezing mud. While I was hunting for the key, he was probably watching. He very likely watched me while I drug myself under the hedge and then splashed all the way here, face down in mud most of the way.
He says, “Loving the wet tee-shirt look. I’m so glad you didn’t ruin it with a bra.” He stares at my tits like he’s considering a sauce for them. When his eyes have finished touring my body, they find their way back to mine. “You do look like you need a whiskey now.”
I do. I almost lunge for the glass. But I stop myself.
“How did you know I would come here?”
He shrugs. “There’s nowhere much else to go. And,” he rises to turn and peer out of the back window. “It’s ugly out there.”
He takes a sip of the bourbon, puckering his lips as he watches me.
“Well done battling through that hedge. I was worried about you, out in that storm.”
My eyes flick to the front door. I would need to get past him. Then I glance at the Sig on the counter. He’s nearer to that, too.
I slump into the chair.
“Finish your coffee and we’ll head back,” he tells me.
I take a sip but my taste for the brew has passed. Now it’s just a warm cup of slightly bitter rust.
Weary, I put the saucer on the low table.
“I’m disappointed, though.” He stands. “I thought we were building a pretty good rapport back there.”
“We were–”
“Really? you could have said, ‘You know, I’m thinking of making a bolt for it. I was going to drop out of the bedroom window.” And I could have told you that was a totally shit plan. That you wouldn’t get far and you’d need a better scheme if you wanted to stand a chance.”
“Would you have helped me escape?”
“I could say, but you’d never know whether to believe me, would you? Anyway, it’s neither here nor there now, is it.”
“You could help me now.”
“Oh, that’s a great idea. I could steal a car for you or put you on a plane,” he beckons me toward him. Reluctantly I get up and approach. “Then I’d go back and tell the others, ‘Hey, she wanted to escape and she was totally rubbish at it, but I gave her a few pointers and a sack of cash.’ Yes?” He motions for me to put out my hands. “That would give us all something to laugh about.” He puts his wrists together, indicating for me to do that. I shake my head. His eyes narrow as he solemnly nods. “We could all meetup years from now.” I do as he wants. Then he snaps a cable tie around my writs.
