When I enter the dining room, two plates are already prepared and Cabualca is settling down in front of one of them. These are not take-away dishes, I don’t imagine him cooking dinner and taking a shower too. So I’m guessing that we’re not alone in the house and that at least one employee is discreetly doing it.
Jack sits with a sigh, runs his hands over his face, through his incredibly thick black hair, and puts his green eyes on me. All traces of the grief that inhabited them earlier have disappeared and his gaze is once again icy.
“Bon appetite,” he says ironically, knowing full well that the last thing I could want on this earth is to have dinner with him.
I dip my fork in the coconut milk shrimp. A delight. I take advantage of it for a moment, going over all the questions that keep
