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“Anybody know who he is?” Martin asked quietly. He had no intention of getting into it with the self-appointed know-it-all.
“Not sure, but I’ve seen him around town,” responded Liam.
“That’s Dante Brown,” Vincent informed them. “His niece, Daniella, was in one of my classes this past fall. They just moved to town. I think they live somewhere near the mansion.”
“Dante Brown, huh?” Xavier repeated, squinting at the guy. “He’s built like a brick shit house.” Xavier reached over and pinched Vincent’s thick biceps. “You are too, baby. The only brick house I care about.”
Vincent rolled his eyes, but Martin could tell he was secretly pleased. “They moved to town after the school year started,” Vincent added. “I’m trying to get Romy to befriend Daniella. But you know how teenagers are.”
Romy was Vincent’s teenaged daughter. Martin had seen her walking Wanda’s and Xavier’s dogs in the afternoons. And he did have an idea how teenagers were, certainly college-aged ones. Martin missed absolutely nothing about standing in front of a lecture hall full of hormone-addled students.
“It looks like this is over, so I’m going to escape while everyone is trying to talk to Dear,” Martin told the rest of the table as he stood up from his seat.
Liam nodded, pushing his hair behind his ear. “Get out of here. Track Nick down and make sure he’s doing okay.”
Nick was back at the cabin. Martin had half-expected him to have disappeared somewhere.
“There you are,” he said as he shut the door behind himself. “Can’t believe you deserted me with the vultures. Now I know what it feels like to be attacked by a school of piranha.”
Nick looked up from where he was sitting on the couch. For the first time Martin was aware of, Nick was doing something on his laptop. An empty mug sat on the coffee table. Kitten was perched on the windowsill.
Smiling at Nick—and at the kitten—Martin realized helikedfinding him there. And it wasn’t because he was lonely. It was because he liked Nick. A lot. Not sure if he should be worried about this revelation, he shoved the thought aside for the moment and focused instead on the fact that they’d never had lunch and now it was dinnertime. After the longer-than-expected hike, he was famished.
“I couldn’t deal with everyone,” Nick said in a way that hinted at apology. “There’s a reason I’m a photographer. I like being on the anonymous side of the camera.”
Huh.That was possibly the most revealing piece of information Nick had ever shared with Martin.
“Well, I’m used to rocks,” Martin said. “They don’t talk back. You want a beer?”
Nick eyed his mug. “Sure, yeah. A beer sounds good.”
Heading toward the kitchen for a beer he could drink in peace—and to stare at the contents of the fridge—Martin paused. He’d worried about Nick while he’d gone for help. Nothing specific, just a vague sense of unease at leaving him alone with a human skull.
Which was ridiculous. This wasn’tDeliverance, and even if Simon joked about it, chainsaw-wielding serial killers were a figment of Hollywood’s imagination.
“You doing okay after all that? Do you need to talk about anything?” he asked.
The expression on Nick’s face was priceless. He looked like he’d sucked on a lemon and stepped barefoot in dog crap at the same time.
“No, I fucking don’t want to talk about anything.”
“Alright then, we’ll just keep on going on. Beer, or something stronger?”
Nick perked up. “Whiskey?”
“Ah, yes.” Martin stepped into the kitchen, opening the cabinet where he’d stashed his whiskey collection. “Straight or what?”
There was a rustling, creaking sound and then Martin could feel Nick standing behind him.
“Or what works,” Nick replied.
“Old-fashioned, it is. Go sit down, you’re in my way.”
Nick chose to sit at the kitchen table instead of retreating back to the couch. Martin suspected he did want to talk but would only admit it on threat of death, or torture, or something else ridiculous.
Martin busied himself with locating the ingredients he needed. Lemon, bitters, simple syrup. And thinking about dinner. The sandwiches he’d thrown together hours ago no longer appealed and were likely smashed after being in his backpack all day.
“How’d you escape the interrogation, anyway?” Martin asked.
