Simmer

“Can you make sure you sprinkle a bit of salt on the steaks this time?”

“Can you watch that knife? Last time the tomatoes looked like they were murdered.”

“Hank!”

“I salt just fine, thank you very much. It’s not my fault you expect a Gordon Ramsey or Guy Fieri-level of seasoning.”

She paused in her salad prep. “You are so melodramatic.”

“I learned it by watching you.”

“Would it kill you to be a little less rigid?” She asked and returned to chopping the veggies.

“I’m plenty flexible. Kind of in the job description.” When she didn’t answer he turned around. Spying the tension in her posture he walked over to her and put his hand on her shoulders, massaging them lightly. “Are you okay? You’re feeling a little tense.”

Her hand touched his—clammy, foreign, detached. Like it belonged to someone else.

“Just my supervisor being…difficult.”

He kissed the back of her head and returned to his side of the kitchen. He added a liberal amount of salt to the steak. She was right. Sometimes you had to make sacrifices. “If you want, I could always make him disappear. I’ll make it quick, painless even…or painful. Dealer’s choice.” Her brief laugh made him smile. He bent down to retrieve the cast iron from the cabinet and placed it onto the range.

“How was work today?”

He shrugged. “Nothing special. Simmons wants me to do an East Coast circuit and then head over to Europe next week. Solidify some contracts; cancel a few others. Maybe kiss a few babies.”

“Does that mean Greece is out?”

“Not at all. We can still make it work,” he said and tossed a stick of butter into the heating skillet. “You can meet me on the eighteenth. I’ll fly down after Budapest.”

For several minutes the only sound was her chopping vegetables and the sizzling cast iron. Then she said, her voice strangely monotone. “You could cancel it; you’ve got so much accrued time, they couldn’t say no.”

He laughed at that. “They would, honey. Remember last time?” He’d refused a job and they had kept him—busy—for sixteen months. Sixteen months without seeing his ’Lona.

“It won’t end until they take everything from us, Hank. I can’t let them take anymore…”

Her words trailed off into mutterings. Confused by the shift in tone, Hank turned…then felt a too familiar heat bloom in his stomach.

He glanced down to see her hand shaking, holding the handle of the butcher knife. An expanding stain of blood blossomed on his shirt.

“Bellona,” he whispered and brushed his fingertips across her cheek. Her face was blank, though tears streamed freely.

“I’m sorry, my love, but it’s the only way they’ll let him live.”

His vision blurred; his legs failing as his strength fled. It took him three tries to ask: “Let who live?”

Her mask cracked and for a moment the guilt was plain in those beautiful brown eyes.

“Our son,” she said.

And twisted the knife.