"But…." No matter how furiously Peter thinks, it doesn't compute. "Why would you kill someone if you don't have a motive?"
Leight smirks wickedly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You do it for fun."
"Oh, no." Peter backs up the stairs. "No. Fuck. Shit. Shitfuck. Fuck no."
He keeps mumbling a train of curses and negations until he backs into Leight.
They're supposed to be going downstairs to have dinner with his parents, but Peter isn't up for his mother's schemes.
"No what?"
"Mal," Peter sighs. He wants to sink back against Leight, to be held, to forget these persistent memories. "We can't go down there."
"Peter, your parents are expecting us."
"I don't care." He's well aware of the fact that he sounds like a petulant child. "The Chatterleys are here."
Leight goes still. "All right. What's our escape route?"
He can't laugh, as much as he wants to, so he settles for a small smile. "As much as I want to, we can't."
"Why do you always have to be so insipidly sensible?" Leight scowls.
Without any feeling but dread, Peter replies, "One of has to."
Leight just pouts as they resume the trek down the stairs, prisoners to the guillotine.
"Peter, do hurry up," Evelyn calls, "you're keeping our guests waiting."
Heaven forbid the guests wait, Peter thinks to himself.
"I'm sorry, Mother," he apologizes as they enter the parlor. "It's great to see you again, Mrs. Chatterley," he nods to the woman in the floppy hat (who is hard of hearing) before his eyes settle on Rachel, who is no longer wearing her country club lawyer attire.
Now, she's wearing a sleeveless little black dress with a deep V-neck. His eyes are drawn to her (ample, defined, etc.) cleavage and then just a little higher. A green jade butterfly hangs from a red cord against her pale white skin.
Peter recognizes this necklace. He recognizes it because he gave it to her so many years ago, and now she is wearing it. She is wearing it because this is what she has always done. She always did like to twist the wings off flies, to pull the legs off spiders, to cut out his heart.
He can see the smirk in her eyes (and they're cold, so cold). It's the same cruel expression she wore when he walked in on her with Ron Nielson. And this, he realizes with a jolt, is the true difference between Rachel Chatterley and Malcolm Leight, the two great loves of his life.
Like Rachel, Leight has slept with other men and smirked at Peter's expense; he has even been, on occasion, cruel. His cruelty, however, has never lacked warmth. He has never played games with the sole intention of hurting Peter.
Rachel Chatterley, however, has. It's her favorite pastime, even now; she's still playing those games, still hurting him, even now.
Peter takes an involuntary step closer to Leight.
'Sorry, I don't believe we've been introduced," Leight announces suddenly.
Peter's attention swirls back into focus, away from Rachel. Right beside her stands a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man whom he hasn't seen in years.
"Sorry, Ryan, this is Malcolm Leight, my partner. Mal, this is Ryan Chatterley, Rachel's twin brother."
Leight takes the two steps forward necessary to offer his hand to Ryan.
Ryan takes Leight's hand but doesn't shake. "Pleasure."
"All mine." Leight doesn't let go. He stares at Ryan with a disturbing intensity.
Peter needs to break the tension. He turns to his mother and asks, "Where's Dad?"
"Why, he had to work."
Peter doesn't even try to point out the hypocrisy. His father can skip dinner for work, but solving a murder isn't important enough. So he just smiles as pleasantly as he can manage.
"No point fussing, Peter, dinner's ready."
The group migrates to the dining room. The matriarchs take the head and the foot of the table. Peter sits to his mother's right, beside Leight, with Rachel and Ryan on the other side.
The meal consists of three courses, starting with a butter lettuce salad tossed with candied pistachios, crumbled blue cheese, and buttermilk blue cheese dressing. As they eat, the silence is profound.
It's Rachel who breaks it. "Has there been any progress on the case, Mr. Leight?"
Leight sets down his fork and sends her a disapproving look. "Nothing I'm at leisure to disclose."
His tone is terse. Then he forces his sour frown away. "But please, call me Mal."
Rachel smiles. "Well, please let me know as soon as you can."
Leight smiles back, matching her insincerity, "Of course."
There's more silence as they all pick at their food. Once she finishes her salad, Rachel hammers down once again.
"So, Peter, you must catch me up. I heard you were a cardiologist, but how exactly did you get to doing—whatever it is you're doing now?"
Peter tries to fake-smile but he ends up grimacing. "About two years ago, I moved to Philadelphia to take a job at Crick. On my first day, a patient died of a heart attack. It was cardiology; heart attacks were common. No one seemed to care that the patient had ASD and wasn't at risk for a heart attack.."
"I did the autopsy myself. Medically, she shouldn't have been dead. I didn't know what to do. No one at the hospital would listen, so I called the police. They didn't have the time or the resources to investigate, but they did give me the name of a consultant they used. And that's how I met Mal." He doesn't have to fake his smile anymore as he turns to look at Leight.
"He believed me. He took the case and solved it in two days; it turns out the woman's boyfriend poisoned her with oleander. After that, I didn't want to work at Crick anymore, so I started doing medical consults with Mal. Then we realized that I was still living in a hotel, and Mal was looking for a roommate."
"It all worked out brilliantly," Leight adds.
"Quite." This from Evelyn, who wears a curiously implacable expression. "Is there anything else new, Peter?"
He may as well be in a sinking boat. The water's rushing in too quickly to bail out, and he doesn't have a life vest.
"Nothing that you would find particularly interesting, Mom." It isn't, he thinks, too much of a lie.
"That isn't what I heard from Sissy McPherson."
And there's nothing Peter can do but groan. "When did you talk to Sissy?"
"I went over to see Janet after you were there," Evelyn explains with a shrug. "Now why didn't you tell me you were in a relationship? Who is this woman?"
Peter's all too aware of the five sets of eyes on him, and he can't think. He can't lie. He can't handle this. He can't do this. He can't. He fucking can't. He just won't.
"There isn't one," he admits, much to his own surprise. "There's no woman. I just told Sissy what she wanted to hear."
"Good," his mother looks perversely satisfied. Just when Peter's starting to think he cleared the minefield, she continues, "Then you can take Rachel to dinner tomorrow evening."
He doesn't have to look at Rachel to know she's wearing her signature smirk. He just stares at his mother in disbelief. He doesn't know how she's forgotten what he was like after they broke the engagement.
Surely she isn't sadistic enough to put him through this again. But he can see in her eyes that she's perfectly serious, that there's no way he's getting out of this. So he swallows his pride and looks to the woman across from him. So beautiful; so cold. Nothing like the man he loves.
"Rachel?"
"I'd love to," she smiles lightly.
He can't look at Leight because he knows that Leight must be furious. He can only hope that Leight knows that this isn't what he wants, that he's being coerced, that he just can't refuse without there being consequences he can't handle.
The main course arrives. Flank steaks with watercress sauce and goat cheese mashed potatoes. Peter has lost his appetite, but he eats anyway.
After a few bites, Leight looks up from his food. "What is it you do, Ryan?" he asks, his voice steady and clear.
"Nothing terribly interesting," Ryan is curt and gruff. He pays little more attention to Leight than he does his steak. "I run the local history museum. I volunteer at the state park. I participate in Civil War reenactments."
"Fascinating," Leight returns drily.
The third course, bread pudding with rum raisin ice cream, passes without conversation.
.
.