Page 17 of Carver’s Craving

I opened my eyes.

Soft blue ones stared back.

God give me strength. “I should’ve checked the lights.”

“You already had. And your best lighting technician hung them. Neither of you had any reason to suspect anything was wrong.” He narrowed his eyes. “Look, if we’d had better security, then the stalker wouldn’t have gotten backstage.”

Yeah. At least that part of the story was true. We’d been in a huge theater, and security had been lax. The guards had been reprimanded. Too late. Way too fucking late. “Still—”

He squeezed my hand. “Stalkers are notoriously unpredictable.” He sighed. “I didn’t take him seriously enough either. I couldn’t believe anyone would be obsessed with Frank.”

On that point, I could’ve certainly argued. Frank had been vibrant. Full of energy and life. Although, objectively, he hadn’t been the most aesthetically pleasing of the band. But stalkers didn’t always care about looks. Something about Frank had attracted the guy. We might never truly understand why. No note. Just an overdose that was declared a suicide because of the quantities of drugs consumed.

“If they hadn’t found him dead in a car about a mile from the venue, the cops might not have ever put it together.” Styx squeezed my hand again—maintaining this tenuous connection. “We all sort of failed and we all sort of aren’t to blame. Simple.”

I wasn’t going to repeat that my job had been to check the lights. Back then, I’d been dazzled by Styx. Wary as well. But that was on me—not him. You’re still dazzled.

He cocked his head. “But you know that. The cops cleared you. I came to see you—but you were gone.”

I blinked. “You came to see me?”

“Yep. About a week after. All I found was a real estate agent, a For Sale sign, and a story about how you’d had a family emergency and had to leave suddenly.”

That sounds about right. Except I didn’t know you came to see me. Wouldn’t have changed anything…but it might’ve been nice to know. “Yeah, sorry.” Although what I was apologizing for was beyond me. I’d taken off. And had no reason to believe anyone would ever come looking for me.

Styx waved me off. “I sort of got it. Or I thought I did. Later, though, after Frank’s funeral, I didn’t get it. Why you’d taken off. You weren’t to blame. At all. The cops made that clear. The workplace safety people didn’t find any violations. You did everything right. The weird stalker dude was to blame.”

His words were the objective truth.

They just weren’t my truth.

“Perhaps we can agree to disagree.” I slowly pulled my hand from under his. And immediately missed the connection.

He pursed his lips. “Not really good enough, but I’ll take it for now. Eat up. I spotted some cookies-and-cream ice cream in your freezer.”

Heat raced to my cheeks. “Uh, yeah.”

“What?” He laughed. “One of my favorite flavors.” He scooped some vegetables onto his fork. “Well, let’s be honest—I love all flavors of ice cream. Except pistachio. What’s with that? So gross.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had pistachio.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Don’t. You’re not missing anything.”

I cut another piece of the rapidly cooling chicken. Then I stopped. “Wait. You’re telling me you like tiger-tail ice cream?”

“Oh, that’s one of my favorites. Do they have it out here? In BC? Because I have American friends who’ve never heard of it.”

Laughter bubbled in my chest. “You mean not everyone is enamored with orange cream mixed with black goo? Why ever not?” Blech. Seriously gross.

“Black licorice—not goo. And the combination is freaking brilliant. How can you not love it?”

“Creamsicle is fine. No licorice. Or any other added flavor.” I pointed to his plate with my knife. “Eat it all. Then we can talk about cookies and cream.” Only after the words left my mouth did I consider them. I didn’t have the right to tell him what to do. To insist he finish his food. He was an adult. He could do whatever he wanted.

Before I could say anything, though, he dove into his potatoes with renewed gusto.

My stomach settled enough for me to do the same, and soon both our plates were clean.

He patted his very flat stomach. “I don’t know if I have room for ice cream.”