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What we got was exactly dick-all. Anton's house was clean of anything that might implicate a past. The only thing I found of interest was the grand piano in the fourth-floor parlor, covered in dust and complicated sheet music, and the bookshelves in the master bedroom, lined with an eclectic mix of volumes so diverse that I first suspected he had simply ordered the most visually pleasing arrangement arrayed against the white shelves. Most of the volumes were well-worn, however, and I found his hand writing in several of them: the Illiad, a copy of Kurt Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions, and a book called Waiting for the Barbarians all had his distinct, spiky print scrawled over the pages, though the notes made little sense to me. A well-thumbed copy of The Thornbirds rested atop the Illiad, as though recently read.
Other than that, it was a beautiful house that seemed to be perfectly set up for a real estate showing, except for the fact that the basement was locked. Probably for the best. If Anton did have a sex dungeon, I was certain he wouldn't want Sadie to know about it.
Sadie did not share this opinion. “Ugh,” she said, tugging on the handle to the basement door. “This guy is weird. And creepy. Who doesn't have personal touches in their house? And why is this door locked? This is like that fucked up fairytale where the girl marries this dude and he's got all the mangled bodies of his other wives locked behind a door and he's all, 'don't check out this door!' like a douche.”
“Bluebeard,” I said. “Or maybe the
Robber Bridegroom.”
“Whatever.” She gave the door a kick of disgust. “It's getting close to seven. You should probably get ready.”
“Right,” I said. I'd been avoiding thinking about it. Was I going to be the target of hidden cameras tonight? And what was I going to talk to Anton about? And was I actually interested in him? The thought was too uncomfortable to even examine, so I'd shoved it down after Sadie had suggested it, but like a dead body it kept bobbing to the surface. Dinner was suddenly seeming like a really bad idea.
To my surprise, Sadie put an awkward hand on my shoulder. “Come on, it's not going to be that bad,” she said. “What's the worst that could happen?”
“He chops me up and puts me in the basement with his other wives?”
She smiled. “Relax. You're probably more fun alive than dead.”
“Not helpful!” I told her as, behind us, the vestibule door opened and Anton Waters stepped inside.
Silence fell over us as we all stared at each other, and I realized, after a moment, that Anton and Sadie had never met and that I was the one who should be introducing them. “Oh!” I said. “Uh. Anton, this is my friend—and personal assistant—Sadie MacElroy. Sadie, this is Anton Waters, my... husband.”
God, that still felt awkward to say.
Anton stepped forward, extending a hand and a smile. “I'm glad to meet you, Miss MacElroy. Let me give you my personal assistant's number and you two can talk compensation.”
“Nuh-uh,” Sadie said. “I'm talking to you. Tomorrow. At your office.”
Anton paused, but recovered quickly. “Very well.” He reached into his impeccable suit jacket, extracted a business card, and handed it to her. “Call first thing in the morning and we'll work you in.”
“Good.” She plucked the card from his fingers and extended her hand. They shook, and then she turned back to me and gave me a hug.
“See you tomorrow, Lis,” she said.
“Hurgle,” I said, too mortified to respond properly. She ignored me and swept through the gallery, turning once to give Anton the I've-got-my-eye-on-you gesture, which, thankfully, his back was turned for. Then she bolted out the front door and was gone, and we were alone again.
Anton stared at the hand she had shaken. “I think she sprained one of my fingers,” he said. “I may regret hiring her.”
“I won't,” I said, “and since she's my assistant, I'm the one that matters.” It came out far more vitriolic than I meant for it to.
He turned to me in surprise. “Have I done something to offend you, Felicia?” he asked.
I pressed a hand to my forehead and forced myself to relax. “No,” I said after a moment. “No, I'm sorry, I'm just on edge. Sadie said I'm all over the internet, and we're going out tonight, and... I don't know. I don't know what to talk about with you. We haven't even been on a date and we're... married.”
He tilted his head. “Yes,” he said, “we are. Is that what is bothering you?”
Lots of things were bothering me. “Where are your baby pictures?” I blurted.
He stared at me.
Good, I thought. Very smooth, Felicia. That won't tip him off that you know about his basement full of severed limbs at all.
“I'm sorry?” he said.
Well, I might as well go whole hog. I waved my arms, indicating his house. “What's with this place?” I said. “Where are all the pictures? Where are the... I don't know, the overdue library books and the stray receipts from the grocery store and the junk drawer with little bits of lint and a pair of broken scissors in it? Do you even live here?”
To my relief, Anton didn't look angry that I'd been snooping around—although I suppose, technically, he had invited me to do so by telling me to make myself at home. Instead he looked amused. “Well,” he said. “I suppose I live at the office more than I do here.” He glanced around himself as though taking in his own house for the first time. “Perhaps it is a bit spare on the personal touches.”
