Page 98 of Hard Evidence
“He wants me to stay in the dark, but I want the light.He wants me to keep quiet, but I have a voice.”
A voice and a new cooking channel.
I pulled ingredients from the refrigerator, from the cupboard, from the shelf.I found my mom’s casserole dish and set it on the island beside a chopping board, and then I selected the biggest knife in the block and gripped the handle.
Considered the optics.
Put the knife back and picked up a meat cleaver.
Fuck him.
He didn’t even go to church, but Mom used to take me on Sundays, and I still remembered some of the Bible passages we’d learned.I opened BuzzHub, typed in the words from John 3:19-21, and started a live-stream as Justin settled onto a stool.
“Dear Saylor, today we’re going to learn a new recipe.Have you ever made moussaka?This one’s actually inspired by Ridge, my hopefully soon-to-be ex-husband.”
I lined up one of the tiny eggplants.Thwack.The end flew across the chopping board and skidded onto the floor.Oops.
“I left him at the start of the month, and when I say ‘left him,’ I mean I snuck out in the middle of the night because I feared for my life.”Not slander.Truth.“I didn’t plan to make a video today, but I also didn’t plan on him telling lies about me in public, so here we are.”
Thwack.
“Here I am.I’m not even wearing make-up because for the first time in I can’t remember how long, I don’t have any bruises to hide.”
Thwack.
“I’m not suicidal, I’m not in danger, and I’m not being held hostage.I’m staying with a good man who’s taking care of me.Okay, so we’re having a small problem with podcasters at the moment…” I laughed, and did I sound hysterical?Possibly.“But that’s only because the police don’t have a viable suspect for a crime they don’t even know has taken place, and I guess they want to look as if they’re doing something.So anyhow, I’m going to cook.For fun.Not because a sponsor’s paying me, or because I’m looking for a book deal, or because I want to grow my freaking channel.I’m going to cook because it’s cathartic.”
Thwack.
“Some eggplants can be bitter, so we’re going to rinse them, salt them, and let them rest while we prepare the rest of the ingredients.”
Whenever I made a video, Ridge used to play director, standing beside the camera and making hand gestures to direct me.Hurry up.Slow down.Stand up straighter.Smile more.Justin just watched with an indulgent smile as I finished with the eggplants and started on the potatoes.People were watching.The likes were going up.Comments were scrolling up the side of the screen.I didn’t care about anything except the fact that people were finally seeing my truth.
Fuck him.
Thwack.
“Ridge posted a Bible quote earlier, but do you know where he worships on Sundays?The golf course.And no, I’m never going to forgive him.He dumped my dog at a freaking shelter, and who does that to family?”I fetched a frying pan and checked the camera angle.“Can you all see the stove?Good.We’re going to shallow fry the potatoes and the eggplant, but if you’d prefer, you can bake them to make the dish healthier.”
“Saylor’s watching,” Justin said, and I realised he was checking the comments on his own phone.
Ohmigosh.I grinned and waved.“Hi, Say.”
“She says, ‘Love you, carry on.’And someone wants to know if you should add oil to the eggplant when you bake it.”
“Uh, yes, drizzle them with a little olive oil.And eggplant tends to stick to the sheet pan, so use non-stick if you can, and you can also overlap the slices so they’re easier to lift at the end.”
The oil heated, and I dropped slices of potato into the pan to brown, then realised I had a problem.Where were the spatulas?I tried a drawer and found a phone charger.
“What do you need?”Justin asked.
“A spatula.”
Ridge had cast himself in the role of doting husband, and our appearances together were carefully choreographed to show him in the best possible light.He literally wrote scripts and screen directions.Jessalyn smiles at Ridge.Jessalyn gazes adoringly at Ridge.Jessalyn definitely wasn’t supposed to make disparaging comments about the size of his equipment.
Justin preferred spontaneity.He brushed past me and rested his hand on my hip, high enough to be family friendly, low enough to be suggestive, brief enough to look natural, lingering enough that my ovaries exploded.Our gazes met.Before I caught myself, I bit my lip, and heat rushed through me.
“How long does moussaka take to cook?”he murmured.
