Page 46 of On Thin Ice

The next night, Saturday, was like normal—meaning Sinclair and I ate dinner together, took a walk, played some chess, and made love like nothing had happened Friday afternoon.

The same was true on Sunday. And Monday. And so on. By Friday, I thought maybe he’d forgotten all about it. Although I knew better than that, I was hoping and believing he’d changed his mind.

I wasn’t about to ask, though.

Because we were spending so much time together, I’d barely finished the last journal written by his mother, one of the ones I’d found downstairs, and had only read two pages of the new gray one that I’d found in her room—but that was all I needed to confirm that this was definitely the last journal his mother ever wrote. It didn’t hurt that I peeked at the last few pages that had been written on, determining by the last few entries that Sinclair was an infant when she’d recorded her thoughts.

But I wanted to read it from beginning to end because it might explain her state of mind those last days and weeks of her life. I also hoped it would reveal who Sinclair’s father was—and, if I found out, would I tell him?

That was a burning question I still didn’t have an answer for.

Friday evening, Sinclair met me in the kitchen for dinner, a few minutes late. Although that was unusual for him, he was sometimes late due to work, so I didn’t think much of it. While I was getting food out of the refrigerator, he said, “Put that away. We’ll be eating dinner later—and Greg will be picking up something different for us.”

I turned around, excited to see him. “Oh? What will that be?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said, a subtle smile lighting up his face. “But first it’s time for your punishment.”

Suddenly, I was glad I didn’t have food in my stomach because that news felt like a lead balloon settling in it. Why now? And what could it possibly be that dinner would have to wait? To buy a little time to allow my brain to fully grasp it, I played dumb. “Punishment?”

“Yes. For your infractions a week ago. Do we need to go back over what you did?”

For some reason, I was intimidated again, just like I had been when he’d caught me coming down the stairs, thinking I’d escaped the scene of the crime unnoticed. Maybe that was why he was punishing me—for believing I was smart enough to get away with it. My voice was meek when I replied, “No.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

I followed him out of the kitchen and into the main hall. I took comfort in knowing that he planned food for later, which told me my punishment probably wouldn’t last more than two to three hours. That also meant I probably wouldn’t be cleaning all the bathrooms again, because that would take far longer.

But, for all I knew, this punishment would not be over tonight.

When he paused at the west wing steps, he said, “After you.” As he walked beside me, my mind continued to race. Where exactly were we going and why? I wondered if whatever he was going to have me do would be either a harder task or a longer one, considering I was a repeat offender.

All this in addition to the original punishment of being here…which wasn’t starting to feel like a prison sentence anymore.

At the top of the stairs on the second floor, he indicated that we would be going down the hall, so I figured the punishment would take place in his bedroom. And that made me all the more curious.

Instead, he stopped at the door across from my bedroom. After turning the knob, he opened the door, flipping on the light. At first glance, it seemed like a normal guest room, arranged similarly to mine. But, as I stepped in, it didn’t take me long to notice the differences.

The bed was stripped with nothing but a light blue bottom sheet.

Black straps peeking out from under the bed at the top and bottom.

Other items bunched together on the nightstand.

The drapes tightly closed, blocking out the early evening sunlight.

What was going on?

As he closed the door behind me, he said, “This is your punishment…but I also want to give you a safe word.”

“A what?” I’d heard of them but what the hell was happening here?

“Just for the hell of it, how about we make the safe word Rakhimov? After all, you wouldn’t be here if not for her.”

My mind was reeling. “Wait—are you saying it’s her fault that I’m here?”

“No,” he said, his voice suddenly tender, and he stroked my cheek. “But if she hadn’t chosen you as her assistant, we never would have met.”

Was he saying that was good?

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