Until he found more: The jeans, with their familiar rips where his own knees had eventually worn through the denim. She was wearing his pants, too. The marble thing became a fist.
"You know," she said, making a rolling gesture with her hand,
"The pizza cutter thing."
"No. I mean, I don't know. In one of those drawers, probably." Had she gone through his closet? Had she helped herself to anything else?
"Ah. Here we go." She returned with the instrument and cut the pizza into quarters.
Her feet were bare. She wore no jewelry, no watch. He fabricated a possible explanation: She was doing her laundry and had asked Alice if she could borrow some of his old clothes while hers went around.
"Mmm. Not bad. Here. Eat."
It was probably nothing, he told himself. He was probably overreacting. He'd ask her about it later, no big deal. Still, it had given him one hell of a little scare there. Enough, already. Right now, he was hungry.
"Delicious," he said truthfully. "I can't believe you don't do this all the time."
"I could," she said, and stopped chewing. He caught her look, edged with some unknown meaning. "I mean," she went on, waving at the pot on the stove, "I could eat like this all the time, but who has the time, right?"
Peter just nodded. He took another bite of pizza. He was thirsty.