Chapter Eleven
Friday evening. Stroud’s knock at the door. Strictly punctual, as always. Ever grabbed her overcoat from the walk-in closet and tossed it across one of the dining chairs on her way to answer the door.
Stroud stepped inside, bringing a gust of chilly wind with him.
“What kept you?” he asked.
“Kept me?”
“From answering when I came to the door.”
“Oh, I had to get my coat from the closet.”
“I told you I’d be here at seven. At seven you’re ready to answer the door.”
His tone didn’t tell her. His tone was level and conversational, as always. It was the words. She’d made an error.
“Go to the dining table. Assume position.”
Ever crossed to the table. Her overcoat, carelessly tossed over the chair, ready to go. Well, not yet.
The combined phrases ‘dining table’ and ‘positi
