The Sixes

She followed Duncan into the kitchen area and slid onto one of the stools along the island while he uncorked a bottle of Bordeaux. He poured them each a glass. Then, after lighting the gas fire in the fireplace, he pulled out a large red pot from the fridge.

“Hmm, what do you have there?” Phoebe asked.

“Hunter’s chicken,” he said smiling. “With a name like that, I figured I could prepare dinner for you with my masculinity totally intact.” He set the pot on the burner of the stovetop and lit the flame. “Let’s give it about ten minutes to reheat, and then we’ll eat.”

He washed off his hands, wiped them on his jeans, and plopped on a stool perpendicular to hers on the island. After taking a drink of wine, he set the glass down and looked into her eyes. “Okay, Ms. Hall, tell me the whole story about last night—from start to finish.”

She went over what had happened with the dishwasher, filling in the gaps she’d left before. She also told him about her talks with Hutch, Alexis, and Wesley. Despite the relaxing effects of the wine, she found herself getting churned up as she rehashed certain details.

When she’d finished, Duncan didn’t say anything for a bit, just twirled the wineglass between his fingers.

“So tell me your opinion,” Phoebe urged. “Do you think there could be some kind of serial killer on the loose here?”

He shrugged. “It’s just so hard to know without being privy to any real evidence—what the cops have found. But there’s one thing I do know.”

Phoebe looked at him expectantly and was surprised when his expression became stern.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Maybe it’s none of my business here, but it seems you’ve gone beyond the call of duty for Glenda—and it’s time to let the authorities take over.”

“You’re right, of course,” Phoebe said. “Everything’s escalating. Besides, I feel I’ve done all I can do.” Which wasn’t true, she knew. She hadn’t found out yet what the other circles were. And she hadn’t learned who had killed Lily. But she could see it would be pointless to try to make any kind of case with Duncan.

“Is that a promise to cease and desist?” Duncan asked, smiling.

“Promise,” Phoebe said, without meaning it.

“Great. And you know what your reward shall be? Hunter’s chicken.”

For the next few minutes, she let Duncan do his thing while she sat curled up on the couch. She tried to keep the drownings and the Sixes at bay, forcing herself to concentrate solely on the flames dancing in the fireplace, the taste of the wine, and the reassuring sound of Duncan moving around in the kitchen. Once she jumped up and, smiling, used her phone to snap a picture of him cooking.

The stew was just the kind of comfort food she needed, and she devoured it. Over dinner she asked about Duncan’s background, something she hadn’t had time to probe much about yet. He was from the suburbs of Chicago, he said. He’d done his undergraduate work at UCLA but had missed the Midwest and gone to Michigan for his PhD—as she’d seen from the diploma—before finally teaching at Northwestern.

“Is that where you met your wife?” Phoebe asked. “At Northwestern?” She found the subject of his marriage slightly unsettling but also utterly compelling, and she’d been fighting off her curiosity since their first dinner.

“I met her when I first started teaching, but not at the school.” He cleared the plates then, and she wondered if this was terrain he wanted to avoid.

“What about you?” he said, returning with salad and a plate of cheeses. “I realize I’ve assumed you’re from the East Coast, but I never asked.”

“A small, uncharming town in Massachusetts. Since my mother died a few years ago, I’ve been back just once—for a cousin’s wedding.”

“Not your favorite place in the world?”

“No. I have some happy memories—my mom tried hard to make things special for me, even though my father took off when I was two, never to surface again. But I hated the town. I wanted to be out in the world, forging a new life.”

“Then why leave boarding school and go back there?” he asked quietly.

Phoebe smiled ruefully to herself. She felt like a witness on the stand in a courtroom drama who has just answered the wrong way, accidentally opening the door to a line of questioning that her lawyer has warned her to avoid at all costs. She met Duncan’s eyes briefly and looked away, picking a piece of bread from the basket.

“So you didn’t buy my answer the other night about being homesick?” she said.

“I sensed there was something you weren’t telling me,” he said. “If you feel comfortable talking about it, I’d love to hear.”

“You’ll actually find it fairly ironic,” she said, meeting his eyes again. She hesitated. “I was bullied by a bunch of girls. They were part of a secret society, not unlike the Sixes.”

Be careful, she warned herself. You don’t really want to go here. Glenda knew all about it, of course. But very few others. Even Alec had been offered only cursory details in their four years together.

“Okay,” Duncan said. “That explains why you’re passionate about trying to root out the Sixes. So tell me about these bullies.”

She touched the tips of her fingers to her forehead and lightly brushed her hair away. God, she thought, why did I start this?

“There’s not all that much to tell. They sent mean notes, that sort of thing. Glenda was like a rock for me then, and I think that’s why our bond has been so strong all these years.”

Phoebe realized she’d been talking without drawing a breath. She breathed now, trying not to look as if she was gulping for air, and then took a long sip of wine.

“It’s hard to picture Phoebe Hall fleeing town just because of some mean notes.”

“Well, things got worse. They boxed me out of things I wanted to belong to. It was pointless to stay at the school if I couldn’t participate. And it’s no fun being shunned by other girls.”

“It must have been a very difficult time.”

“I don’t think anyone escapes adolescence scot-free. Look, let’s change the subject, okay? I hate dwelling on something from so long ago. It’s not worth the time.”

“Sure,” he said. “I remember promising a neck massage earlier, and now seems like the perfect time.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” Phoebe said, glad to be delivered from the topic. She stood up from the table and began to clear the salad plates.

Duncan rose too and followed her into the kitchen. As she was setting the dishes on the counter, he slipped behind her and placed his hands on her waist. It was the first time he’d touched her intimately since the kiss in his office, and desire spread through her like a brush fire. “Or we could just go to bed,” he said. “I can do some things there that are even better than a massage.”

“Option B,” she said, smiling.

They made love—first slowly and sensuously and then afterward in a fierce, raw way that almost shocked her. She felt herself letting go and briefly shucking off all the craziness happening around her.

In the morning Duncan was up ahead of her again. She could hear dishes clacking lightly together in the other room and classical music playing softly. When she padded into the great room, she found that he’d set out fruit and a basket of muffins.

“Okay, you didn’t bake those, did you?” she asked.

“Berta’s,” he said. “I made a guess you’re a blueberry girl.”

“You guessed right,” she said.

Their conversation over breakfast was easy and relaxed, no naked-light-of-day awkwardness. After breakfast they cleared the table together, their movements in sync, she noticed.

“This is the last weekend for good foliage,” Duncan said. “If you’re up for it, we could hang around here for a bit and then drive along some great back roads. Afterward we could eat lunch at an inn I know where they have really great mussels.”

So he was kidnapping her for the weekend.

“That sounds perfect,” Phoebe said.

The sky was crystal clear that morning, and as promised Duncan took them along charming backcountry roads, past farms with big silos and old red barns. They drove around for about two hours, stopping at several