Page 74 of Kept in the Dark

Exploring the first floor is an exercise in trying not to fall over because I’m craning my neck so hard to see everything at once. I knew the house was big from how long it took my eyes to scan the back of the building when we stepped outside of the pool house, but it was almost deceptive. Inside, it’s somehow bigger.

The ceilings are high, the rooms are large, and the hallways are long. I feel like I’m in some kind of weird, modernist museum curated by someone with boring taste—artwork that’s, like, a circle and a line on a canvas; that sort of thing. I know it’s expensive, but art is subjective, and I don’t like this style at all.

All the cavernous spaces in the house appear to make sound carry well because I can hear two people squabbling. I follow the sound down the hallway towards the kitchen, and I can immediately identify a voice.

“Yes, I am. I am throwing it all away.” Dimitri’s tone is clipped, angry.

Gee, and I thought I was the only one who got to see his prickly, domineering side.

A flash of something—definitely not jealousy—makes me swallow reflexively when I see that he’s arguing with a woman.

“—or you could try not eating something unmarked in the fridge just to see what it tastes like!” she snaps back, hands on hips.

“I told you to label things!”

“And I told you not to eat my yogurt, so sounds like we’re both out of luck.”

“What did he eat?” I ask, stepping into the soft lighting from a multitude of recessed fixtures.

They both react to my voice, Dimitri spinning all the way around, and the woman he’s towering over tilting her head to the side to see around him.

She’s pretty—taller than average for a woman, with long legs. She’s got gorgeous dark hair, running halfway down her back in waves, and a severe line of bangs that cut her round face in half. Her cheeks are somewhat red from shouting, but she stands up to Dimitri’s ire—despite being a full foot shorter—without fear, like they’re brother and sister. Or lovers.

She doesn’t sound Russian to me, so it’s probably the latter. A pang in my stomach has me looking away to regroup. Well, that’s… unfortunate.

Maybe I’m not the only girl he wants to ruin. Kind of felt like it was implied.

“Sourdough starter,” she replies, picking the jar up from the counter and making a face as she removes the spoon he must have used.

“I thought it was yogurt,” he says, spitting into the sink.

The jar has clear walls, so I can see the off-white color. It does kind of look like yogurt, except for the bubbles. I know it can’t be too bad since—judging from the name—it goes into sourdough bread, which is edible. But I can’t help slipping back into my Nurse Nicole skin.

“What’s in that?”

“Well, it’s wild yeast growing in raw flour, so it’s not the best thing for him to eat, but he’ll probably live. Unfortunately,” she snipes, and he glares back. “You know, I’ve been keeping the Yeastie Boys alive for nine years. If you got your mouth germs in it and it grows mold and dies, I’m going to be so pissed at you.”

“‘Mouth germs’?” he shoots back, sneering.

“‘Yeastie Boys’?” I repeat with a faint smile.

Damn it. Now I kind of like her.

She shakes her head and turns back around to the stove, which, I now realize, is actively cooking something. I’m staring, I know, but I’m just so thrown off to find someone who looks so much like… well, like me. She’s a big girl—thick, like me. Not as tall as me, but hardly any women I come across are. She’s sturdy in a way that makes me feel a kinship to her.

“Nicole, I am going to speak with Wesley for a moment. You will be all right here with Eleanor for—what is that?” he cries in disgust, leaning over her shoulder, where she’s stirring something in a cast-iron skillet full of oil. “I said no fried food!”

“They’re just a garnish; you don’t have to use them,” she replies, her tone bored with exaggerated patience. Then she turns back to me and stage-whispers, “He’s going to use them.”

This time, I don’t even try not to smile. After how weird everything has been—meeting James and Wesley, and casually discussing completely insane things like incriminating USB drives and Russian mafia men and coroner’s reports and murder—her casually friendly air feels out of place, but in a very welcome way.

With a noise of frustration, Dimitri returns his attention to me. His hard expression doesn’t shift. “I will be back.”

As he strides away, my stomach lets out an embarrassingly audible growl, and I glance at the woman to see if she noticed.

But she’s busy rolling her eyes at Dimitri. “You must be Nicole. I’m Eleanor, Mac’s… uh, fiancée. Oh, wow, that’s fun to say.” She extends her hand to me with a huge smile.

The title shocks me even more than her easygoing demeanor. My eyes flick down to her other hand as we shake and—sure enough—she’s got one of those silicone bands around her ring finger that some of my coworkers wear when they don’t want to damage their real rings or have the diamonds catch on the latex gloves we put on and take off dozens of times a day.