“He didn’t tell me—it’s private.”
She pointed at her husband, seated with his tray. He waved.
Maybe Bragg wanted to discuss the surprise sofa? But why not talk to him when they were still at the shop? Or tomorrow? But with Bragg, who knew? “Get me one of those fruity desserts,” he said. Taking his tray, Marshall marched to the table. “What is it?” He sat down.
“What is what?”
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Faith said you did.”
“No.” He shook his head.
Marshall eyed the two women, heads together in conversation. He’d been in Dark Ops too long not to sense when something didn’t add up. In a whispering clutch, the women listed to the table.
“They ran out of dessert,” Amity announced cheerfully. “They’re bringing out another batch. I ordered some for our group. A robo will deliver it.”
His gaze shot to Bragg’s tray—sans dessert. “There wasn’t any when you went through the line?”
“Didn’t want any.” Bragg returned to his meal, seemingly unconcerned. The man never skipped dessert.
Marshall studied the women. They appeared focused on their meals.
“Food is good tonight,” Amity said.
“Yes,” Faith replied. “I wonder if eventually we’ll get tired of egger and horniger.”
Was he reading too much into things? Perhaps he’d become hypersensitive to nuances that didn’t matter outside the sphere of Dark Ops. This wasn’t a life-threatening situation—they were talking about food.
“They’re pretty creative in how they fix it, so maybe not,” Amity said.
“Have you checked out the groceries at the mercantile yet?” Faith asked.
“No more than a quick glance. Have you?”
Casual, mundane conversation. Too mundane. Something was going on.
“Some. I don’t recognize anything. I can’t read the writing on the packaging, and the pictures don’t resemble anything we’re familiar with. I did learn the storekeeper must look up if an item is safe for human consumption before we buy it.” Amity glanced toward the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” Marshall asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You appear unduly concerned with the lack of dessert.” They weren’t even half done with their entrée.
She shook her head. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Nothing,” Faith said.
“Nothing,” Bragg echoed.
Three nothings definitely meant something.
Amity averted her gaze and asked Faith, “Do you plan to do any cooking?”
Faith shrugged. “I don’t know. Eating in the mess is convenient.”
