CHAPTER THREE

My father lifts his fork to his mouth and closes his lips around the portion of meat he's sliced off of his steak. I can hear the soft scrape of his teeth on the tines, hear his saliva swirling in his mouth as he busily chews the bite. My skin crawls, but my lips don't curl in disgust. I don't shiver, and I don't pull away.

Annie glares down at her plate. I can't see her hands, but I know that they are busily clenching and unclenching underneath the table. I am surprised when I realize that my own hands are doing the same.

I lift them up deliberately and begin eating my own dinner. The sound of my own teeth scraping against my own fork helps to alleviate the noise coming from my father's plate, but not much.

Mother stares ahead, her face expressionless. She goes through the motions of eating without once looking at her plate. If there's anything more disturbing than hearing my father's noises as he eats, it's watching my mother cut her steak without looking at the knife.

I am suddenly, powerfully grateful that my father sits in between me and my mother. The look in her eyes reminds me of the crocodiles I see in nature documentaries. It is utterly devoid of emotion, and I have learned enough of people now to know that when people are stripped of emotion, what remains is violence.

I eat my food. My father's teeth scrape on his fork. My sister's hands clench into fists. My mother's knife rends flesh.

I eat my food and wonder if anyone else can hear the screaming inside my head.

***

I open my eyes. I lay still for a moment, trying to hold onto the images in my dream, but they have already fled. All I can remember is the sound of teeth scraping on a dinner fork.

I shiver, and the movement shakes the last of the terror from my mind. It's still dark outside, but I check my cell phone and see that it's already half past six. According to the schedule, Catherine emailed me when I accepted the post that the children are expected to have breakfast in an hour. Sophie prepares their lunches and dinners, but breakfast will be left to me.

So, I dress and head to the kitchen. Since I have some time, I take a detour through the parlor, or I suppose they would refer to it as the living room, since Americans rarely make the separation between the two rooms the way Brits do.

The living room continues the post-modern aesthetic. The furniture is lightly colored and seems designed for form more than function. The tile is dark here, some form of basaltic stone that I'm not familiar with, while the walls are silvery-white. It's not as disgusting as the kitchen was, but it's odd to me. The theme of each room in the house seems to be different. The look overall is modern, but it's almost as though the house is trying to figure out what it's supposed to be.

I leave the living room and open a door to a study. Here, finally, the décor makes some sense to me. The room is floored with laminated hardwood—maple, I believe. The furniture is all of dark mahogany and oiled to a shine. Behind the massive desk is a chair richly upholstered in dark brown leather. There is a computer, of course, but there are also wall-to-wall bookshelves, and beyond the study is a second room which contains a standing globe and models of sailing ships behind glass. It's a true gentleman's study and a breath of fresh air to my old-fashioned tastes.

I hear soft whispering coming from the second room. An image flashes through my mind of a tall, pale woman with empty holes where her eyes should be. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel a strong urge to run.

Then, a figure passes in front of the globe. Instead of a tall, pale woman with empty eyes, it's a petite young woman with straight, dark hair. She wears a black coat that looks somewhat like a monk's robes and carries a tallow candle in front of her.

It's Olivia. I release the breath I'm holding. My fear turns to curiosity. What is she doing down here this early? And what is the purpose of the candle?

She walks in a circle around the globe, her head bowed. She whispers the entire time, and when she crosses to the opposite side, she raises the candle over her head and lifts her gaze.

Her eyes lock on mine. For a split second, she stares at me, stock still. Then she cries out and drops the candle. The flame sputters out, and I lift my hands placatingly. "It's all right. It's just me."

She runs from the room, brushing past me in her headlong flight from the study. I call her name a few times, but she ignores me. I decide not to follow her. Whatever she was doing, I've clearly embarrassed her.

But what was she doing?

I walk into the globe room and look around. The nautical aesthetic is completed by a massive ship's wheel hung on one wall. Other than that, the only sign of anything out of the ordinary is the candle lying on the floor and the rapidly drying drops of tallow that surround it.

I pick the candle up and take it to my room. I'll return it to Olivia later.

I return to the study with a washcloth and clean the tallow. By the time I've finished, it's nearly seven. Time for me to make breakfast.

I take one last look at the room before I leave for the kitchen. Olivia is only a young girl, but I can't stifle a disturbing feeling about what I've witnessed.

Well, perhaps I'm overthinking it. There are no murders or rumors of murders surrounding this family or this estate.

Still, there's no denying the oddness of what I've just witnessed.

***

Olivia makes no mention of what happened in the study when she comes downstairs for breakfast. She avoids eye contact and eats her breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast with jam, and a small cup of blueberries—without speaking, then rushes upstairs to her room. I'll need to fetch her for her schoolwork soon, but I'll allow her some privacy until then.

I'll take this opportunity to build some rapport with Ethan. He remains equally silent during his breakfast. "Did you like your toast?" I ask.

He frowns quizzically at me. "Yes. Why did you ask about the toast specifically?"

He is shockingly articulate for a young boy. I will have to explore that when I instruct him. Perhaps his quiet is simply an effect of boredom. Young minds need to be challenged, particularly brilliant young minds. "Well, eggs are simple enough, and you'd have to be a fool not to enjoy a fresh blueberry, but I find that some boys take issue with the seeds in strawberry jam."

He nods. "It's fine."

It seems he will take some effort to reach as well. "What do you do for fun, Ethan?"

His brow furrows. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm just curious."

He holds my eyes for a moment, then shrugs. "I collect comic books."

I smile. "What kind?"

"Old ones, mostly. Golden Age and before."

"What are Golden Age comic books?"

"Nineteen-thirty-eight to nineteen-fifty-six. It began with the introduction of Superman and transitioned to the Silver Age when the Flash was introduced in Showcase Number Four."

"The Flash is the really fast one, right?"

I expect a chuckle or a tolerant smile at that. At the very least, a sigh of exasperation at being forced to discuss comics with an old woman. Instead, I receive only a nod and a very matter-of-fact. "Yes, he's the fast one."

"Which superhero is your favorite?"

"I don't have one."

"Oh, come on," I press. "There must be one comic that you prefer to all others. What was the issue you enjoyed reading the most?"

"Oh, I don't read them. I collect them."

I blink. "If you don't read them, what do you do with them?"

"Most of them go in laminated pockets and stay in insulated drawers. The more valuable ones I keep behind glass in climate-controlled display cases."

"You have room for all of that in your bedroom?"

He furrows his brow as though the question is ridiculous. "Yes. Dad converted my second walk-in closet into a gallery."

His second walk-in closet. I forget sometimes just how wealthy some people are. "That's fascinating. I'd love to see them sometime."

He nods. "Very well. Perhaps after my studies."

I smile again. "You have a very elegant speaking style. You must be very intelligent."

"Thank you."

Again, he is matter-of-fact. There is no emotion in his voice at all. It's as though I'm speaking to an android in the body of a young boy. I know he's not emotionless, though. I saw him show emotion at dinner yesterday. He plays with Sophie when she brings them ice cream, and he reacts viscerally to the conflict between his parents.

I will just have to be patient with him. He doesn't know me well. It's not fair of me to expect him to warm up to me right away. In the meantime, I will continue to be friendly.

"What did you do over winter break?" The Christmas vacation ended the day of my arrival. Today is their first day back in school.

"We stayed here."

"Well, that's understandable. You live in one of the most beautiful locations on Earth. Did you go out on the lake or up to the mountains?"

I see the first sign of emotion from him this morning when he replies in a desolate voice. "No. We stayed in the house." He stands abruptly and says, "I'm going to brush my teeth. I'll bring Olivia downstairs when it's time for school. Do you know where the schoolroom is?"

"No."

"We'll meet you in the living room, then. I'll show you where it is."

"Thank you. It was nice talking with you, Ethan."

He meets my face for a moment, but whatever he's searching for, he doesn't find. So, I only get a nod in response.

He leaves me to wonder what could have happened to this family to drive both of these children so deeply into their shells. And what can I do to draw them out?

And what will I discover when I do?