Chapter 16
VAUGHN
Riley Blackstone is washing our breakfast dishes.
The emotional episode from last night has given way to a controlled discipline this morning.
I stand in the kitchen doorway, watching her hold a plate under the stream of water, scrubbing it with a thoroughness bordering on obsession.
Circular motions—first the front, then the back, then the rim.
She rinses the suds, holds the plate against the light, spots an invisible smudge, and starts over.
She’s been washing up since I made breakfast this morning. I used two plates, two cups, and a pan. Normally, that’s a three-minute job, but Riley has been at the sink for fifteen minutes.
It’s not the dishes. It’s control. In a house where she can't control anything—not the doors, not the windows, not even her own presence—washing up is the one thing entirely in her power. A clean plate is a predictable result. A problem she can solve.
“You’re ruining the coating,” I say.
She doesn't turn around. “The pan doesn’t have a coating. It’s cast iron.”
“Then you’re ruining the patina.”
“Since when does a man who kidnaps women into the desert know the difference between coating and patina?”
“Since I started cooking my own meals. That was about thirty years ago.”
She places the pan in the drying rack and dries her hands on a dish towel. Then she turns around and leans her back against the sink. Her arms are crossed over her chest, which has become her default pose when speaking to me.
And yet, with every passing day, there’s a little less hate and contempt in her voice. At least, I tell myself that.
“What were you cooking when you were sixteen?” she asks.
The question surprises me. Not because it’s personal—Riley asks personal questions all the time—but because it’s so precise. She could have asked: What was it like being alone? or Who took care of you? Instead, she’s interested in exactly what I cooked back then.
“Canned ravioli,” I answer. “For three months. Every day. Until I couldn't stand the sight of a tin. Then I started cooking rice. Rice with whatever the supermarket had on sale.”
“Rice with whatever sounds like a sad cookbook.”
“It wasn't a cookbook; it was more of a survival guide.”
She lets her arms drop slightly.
“I can't cook,” she says. “I never learned. At home, there was always…” She trails off. At home, someone else always cooked. The staff. Her father's employees. The invisible hands that organized Riley’s entire life so she could sit in her server room and function.
“I can teach you,” I say.
She studies me with a look that is both suspicious and curious. Like a cat looking at a piece of fish someone placed on the floor, wondering if it’s worth the effort or just a trap.
“Tonight,” she says finally. “But if you tell me to flambé anything, I’m out.”