“Dear, we have a guest,” said Peters. “Set another place at the table.” His tone was noticeably firmer now, more like a military commander than a spouse. “Have a seat, Ivan.”

Ivan nodded. Thoughtlessly he pulled one of the high-backed chairs out from under the kitchen table and sat down. He was happy for the support, for his legs seemed to have lost all their strength.

Peters’ wife retrieved a plate, coffee mug and juice glass from the cupboard.

“Here, let me…” Ivan said as he attempted to stand.

“No,” Peters said coldly. Ivan looked at him and Peters shook his head. “No,” he repeated.

She was facing them now. The metal bands that Ivan himself had manipulated so cunningly were now revealed in all their hideousness. The morning sun shone through the window with ironic brightness, causing the torture tool to gleam.

Ivan could only suppose that the woman was pretty, so smothered were her features. Through the slats Ivan could see her eyes, wide and wet with tears. They were the only human feature he could discern inside that orgy of cold metal.

“She likes rabbits,” Peters explained. “A jackass mask would have been too harsh.”

She stepped closer in order to set his place. As she leaned in Ivan was able to hear faint gagging sounds and the awful chink of teeth-on-metal. Her breathing was sharp but uneven, drawn and exhaled solely through her nostrils. A dark wet thread suddenly sprouted from the muzzle. It left a small red stain on the linen tablecloth.

“My god,” Ivan gasped before pushing himself erect. He turned and began toward the front door.

“I told you it was for teaching,” Peters called, but Ivan was already out the door. The rest of Peters’ spiel fell on deaf ears, for Ivan was too absorbed in shock and self-loathing to hear. The only words that managed to rise above the murmur were “You’re culpable, you know!”

Ivan rushed out into the day and squinted from the accusatory sunlight. He staggered back to his home. Once inside he went straight to the garage where the cordless phone was perched near his workbench. He had it in his fist and was about to dial when Peters’ words bored into him. He had been desperate, yes, but even this and playing up the grieving widower routine would only get him so far with the authorities.

Panic set in. The garage became stifling. Ivan flung the track door open. He breathed in greedily, his mind racing.

Ivan was so lost in his panic he did not hear the approaching footsteps.

“Are you Mr. Biskup?” a strange voice called. Ivan jumped at the sound of it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The woman in his driveway was not wholly unfamiliar to him. He’d seen her before: the young mother from the basement apartment down the road.

“Mr. Peters said I should talk to you,” she said.

“Talk to me?” Ivan sputtered.