Page 82 of Torin

I stack the photographs and straighten the papers enough that nobody could accuse me of ransacking the place. The rest can wait until tomorrow. Then I make my way downstairs.

The lodge is deserted.

“Torin?” I call.

No answer.

Warm evening air drifts through the open front door. I follow it outside and find Orson sitting on the porch with a mug in his hand.

He glances over. “Finally.”

“I got a little carried away.”

“I noticed,” he says, but not unkindly.

I look across the clearing. Torin’s truck is gone.

“Where’s Torin?”

“Went out.”

I turn back to him. “He did?”

“Couple hours ago.”

“He didn’t tell me.”

The words come out more plaintively than I intended.

Orson takes another drink. “Said you were busy.”

I suppose I was. And why should he have to tell me where he was going?

Still. I would’ve liked him to.

My stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly enough for Orson to hear.

“You hungry?”

“Apparently.”

He pushes himself to his feet. “Come on, then.”

I follow him inside. Orson heads into the pantry and comes back carrying a huge parcel wrapped in butcher’s paper, with a sack of potatoes tucked under one arm. He drops everything on the counter.

I look at the parcel. “What are you making?”

“Food.”

I wait. Apparently, that’s the full menu.

He unwraps the paper. A large piece of dark red meat appears. Then he pulls out a potato, and stares at it.

I watch as he turns it over in his hand.

“How exactly were you planning to cook this?”

His eyes lift to mine. There’s a hint of distress in them now. “Hadn’t got that far.”