Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the doors and pushed them open. We went inside and found a small empty room with more locked doors. He went to it, unlocking them and throwing them open.
"Care to stay for dinner, Daisy?" he asked.
Cautiously, I stepped inside. The room smelledof... soap.
"We deep clean every day," he explained as I continued deeper into the room, looking every which way. The room was impossibly huge. It was a banquet hall on the top floor of his house. On one side, there was a giant fireplace, and on the other side, a small stage. The floors were a dark red wood. It matched the red curtains, the dark walls, and the general tone. It was early fall outside, but in here, it was the heart of winter.
In the center of the room, the reason people came here, was the table. It stretched from one end to the other. As I walked through, I placed a hand on each chair, counting.
"Forty-two, including our chef and the guest of honor."
"The chef as in..." My heart raced, hoping he'd answer a different way, but he only confirmed my fears.
"Jules."
In the center of the table, running from end to end, was a charcoal plate. I reached out, needing to feel the texture.
"It's a cooking skillet. Once the meat has been carved, we give our dinner guests the option to cook the meat themselves."
My stomach twisted.
"Do they?"
"Some." Gatsby shoved his hands deep into his suit pocket as he walked behind me, as if on a simple jaunt, discussing the weather. "It varies night to night."
"Who are the guests?"
"Jules knew people. It's a rotating group of about hundred people. All of them are experts in the culinary arts."
"Is Jules one of them?" I asked quickly. “Does he… enjoy the meal like them?”
He hesitated. "I don't know if that's my business to share. Tell me about Lydia."
I froze. It was like he'd punched me in the gut. Icouldn't breathe, I couldn't think. The blood rushed from my face.
"What?"
"Lydia. Tell me about her."
What exactly did he want to know?
"She's small," I said lamely, straightening back up. "She likes to color."
"When is her birthday?"
I blinked. Did I remember that?
"May 12th. She was born in the spring."
"I see. Which means..."
"Who chooses who gets served for dinner?" I asked quickly.
"Rape victims who never saw justice. Daisy…" Gatsby gave me a look of warning. He knew what I was doing, but I couldn't help it. I wasn't ready to discuss Lydia.
"Tell me about the dinners. Tell me about it all. From start to finish. I need to hear it." I gulped, closing my eyes.
"Well, Jules prepares the menu based on the person we are helping’s preference. If they have favorite foods, he includes them.”
