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He produces a folded set of papers and smooths them flat on the tablecloth. For one glorious moment I think it's the honeymoon itinerary, because I am an idiot who never learns.

"I've bought us a burial plot," my husband says to the table. "Two graves, side by side, one large headstone on the hill at Williamstown. Morning sun, view of the river. I paid extra to have the path between them removed, so nothing separates us. These are the headstone designs. Black granite. Pass them around."

And they do. Constantine nods and says it's a fine location. Laszlo's mother presses a hand to her chest, looking somewhat disgusted. Then she arranges her face. "What a wonderful idea. Most people never plan ahead."

My mother has stopped moving with her fork in the air. My father is looking at the drawings of his only daughter's future grave over the top of his glasses with an expression I have never seen on him.

"The inscriptions are already commissioned," Laszlo goes on. "On one side it says: Laszlo Novak - Loving Husband. On the right side is inscribed: Manon Novak - Devoted Wife. Then underneath, United in Life, Never Apart Again. No dates yet, obviously." He takes a sip of his wine. "That part's flexible."

The page reaches me. There it is. My name, carved in a fancy font, dignified enough for a tombstone.

We had an agreement. One year. Twelve months as his wife and then I walk away and get my life back. That was the only reason I said yes to any of this. Now this man has spent a fortune on Belgian granite and passed it around my family's table like a christening photo, and both families are cooing over the design while my husband quietly informs me that the exit I've been counting down to doesn't exist.

"Laszlo," I say, keeping my voice pleasant for the company. "You bought me a grave because I moved your tools?"

"No."

He isn't looking at the drawings. He's looking at me, his expression unreadable.

"I bought you a grave because for five hours today I didn't know whether you were alive or dead."

I open my mouth, but can’t say anything.

I've spent my whole working life around frightened men—fathers going gray in corridors, waiting on news, boys on stretchers making me swear I won't phone their mothers after they got hurt somewhere they shouldn’t be—and the thing nobody warns you about is how little their fear shows. Mostly it's just a man going numb, holding something he's forgotten is in his hand. A wine glass, stopped halfway to his mouth. Exactly like this one.

He sat in that office for hours and hours believing I was dead. And then he got up and went out, and bought the burial plot.

I pick up my glass, mostly so my mother won't see what my hands get up to without it. "To eternity, darling. I want to approve the font first."

His jaw tightens. Barely. A flicker I only catch because he lets me.

Underneath the smile I've already decided I'm not letting this go. He wants to spend money on our death? Wonderful. Death is his whole industry, and I'm about to become his best customer. On his dime.

"And how is Nicko doing?" my mother asks, to lighten the tone of this conversation. That would have been a lovely gesture if the person who put Nicko in the hospital weren't her own son-in-law.

Julien opens his mouth, and I kick him under the table before whatever is in his head can make it out into the garden. He’s been blissfully quiet so far. I know I’m going to have to sit with him one day, and talk to him about that video. About him killing a man. I hate to see what the family business is doing to him, and wish he’d have the balls to quit like I did.

"Recovering," Constantine says. "He's out of the hospital. He's on soft food and communicates by whiteboard, which has improved him as a conversationalist."

"The whiteboard was my idea," Laszlo says.

"He wrote something obscene about you on it yesterday."

"Then he's healing nicely."

"Give him our best," my mother says warmly, and moves the conversation on to the roses. A much safer direction for a dinner chat. Somehow, she’s loosened up a little. Perhaps she figured out whatever is in her head cannot possibly be weirder than what’s happening with her daughter and son-in-law.

The main course arrives. Laszlo's hand settles on my thigh under the tablecloth, and I wait for the grip, the marks, whatever he's going to do to me today. But he does nothing untoward, thumb moving in slow circles against the silk, while he asks my father about import routes. Every so often his fingers tighten a fraction. Not punishment. Checking. Like he needs to confirm I'm still in the chair.

I press my knees together and blame the wine.

I make it through the lamb. I make it through my father telling Constantine about the new berths. Then I fold my napkin, place it beside my plate and rise.

"Excuse me. I'm just going to powder my nose."

"Don't be long, ma chérie," my mother says.

I don't answer. I walk back past the long windows and don't look back once. I just need a few minutes alone, somewhere Laszlo and his deep blue eyes and his terrible calm can't reach me. Somewhere I can put my back against a locked door and breathe like a normal woman before I have to go out there and be his wife again.