Chapter Six
Hunter
Tension grips me like a fist, squeezing tighter with every minute I spend cooped up with Dylan in the cab of my truck. To be fair, I’d been tense since I left Burlington first thing this morning, but that tautness pulling at every muscle in my body really kicked in once Dylan was next to me.
The weather isn’t helping. Icy drizzle falls from low-hanging clouds the color of slate, while wisps of mist hover over the yellow grass and dead leaves covering the ground, drifting like restless spirits between the trees.
It’s a cold morning, the kind of chill that could turn the thin veil of rain to ice and the narrow black roads treacherous in a single breath.
I tip my head to my shoulder, trying to stretch my tight neck. How has it only been an hour since Dylan threw his bulging suitcase into the back of my truck before climbing into the passenger seat beside me? It feels like days.
“Turn left at the next intersection,” the source of my aching shoulders and what is gearing up to be a fantastic headache says. Dylan points at the approaching traffic lights at the same time my GPS issues the same direction.
I risk a glance at him, but he doesn’t notice.
His head is bent, and he’s focused on his phone.
My presence next to him doesn’t seem to have the same impact as his does on me.
In the relatively tight space of my truck, I’m hyperaware of everything he does, every shift in his seat, his every breath.
No matter how hard I try to focus on the road, I’m distracted by the clean pine scent that clings to him, teasing my nose, or the way his low voice hums over my skin.
Fortunately, my inability to respond to Dylan’s chatter with more than one-word answers has put an end to his attempts at conversation.
He’s spent the last twenty minutes quietly watching thick forests of tangled gray trees speed past the passenger window, and a little of the tension gripping me loosens, only to squeeze tight again when he inexplicably starts narrating directions from the GPS as we draw closer to Coldwater.
Letting Dylan tag along on this trip was a mistake, and I’m still not entirely sure why I agreed.
That’s a lie. I know exactly how I wound up stuck in this situation.
The minute Dylan told me he would make this trip on his own, the fight had been lost. Just the idea of him stumbling into a situation that could end with him in danger turns my blood cold.
I tell myself that I would feel that way about anyone putting themselves in a potentially perilous situation, and my apprehension isn’t just about Dylan, but even I’m not buying my own bullshit.
While even my hair feels tense, Dylan seems completely unperturbed, sitting down beside me with our past between us like a pink elephant neither of us would acknowledge.
After tossing his suitcase into the back of my truck, he hopped into the passenger seat this morning, annoyingly cheerful, with a cup of coffee for both of us in each hand.
I muttered thanks, and his grin spread wider. “It’s kind of what I do.”
A part of me had wanted to pull over, grab his shoulders and shake him, tell him we weren’t friends and this wasn’t a fun road trip. He was just a client. Instead, I clutched the steering wheel tighter, half-shocked it didn’t crack under the pressure of my white-knuckled grip.
I make the left that both Dylan and my GPS indicated, following the narrow street through Coldwater’s less-than-bustling downtown.
Marginally smaller than Fieldstone, Coldwater has none of the other town’s charm or vitality.
The sidewalks are empty; most of the storefronts are boarded up.
In late March, with clumps of dirty brown snow clinging to the edge of the gutter, Coldwater looks bleak and almost abandoned.
The cheer had faded over the drive, though, replaced by a quiet watchfulness as the miles passed.
“God, this place is gloomy,” Dylan says, drawing my attention. He’s looking out the window, his brows drawn into a frown.
Gloomy is a good word. “It’s not the most inviting town I’ve ever been to.”
Dylan looks away from the window, his eyes wide with surprise—likely from me responding with a full sentence—before a smile lights his face. My chest tightens, and I force my attention back to the road.
“Why would Matthew have come to a town like this in the first place? There’s nothing here,” Dylan says.
I don’t answer. I’ve been asking myself the same question. Had he been running from someone or something, and he chose a worn-out, forgotten town to hide out in, or had he intentionally chosen Coldwater for a reason of his own?
“Right at the stop sign,” Dylan says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I glance at the GPS. Sure enough, the turn is just ahead. “Not that I don’t appreciate the help, but the GPS is working fine.”
I look up at Dylan and notice two red splotches forming on his cheeks. “I know. I just remembered that you got car sick whenever you tried to read in the car... before. I thought maybe reading the map on the GPS might be making you nauseous, and that’s why you weren’t talking.”
I swallow back the cynical chuckle swelling in the back of my throat.
It’s surreal being with someone who had, at one time, known me better than anyone else in the world.
Now, we were little more than strangers, but he still knew me, knew things that no one else did, not even Jenna, and we’d almost married each other.
“Thanks,” I mutter, mostly because I didn’t know what else to say, and I return my attention to the road.
“That’s the inn,” Dylan points again through the windshield, this time at a big, rambling Victorian house perched on a hill.
Bigger than the rows of wartime bungalows lining the narrow street, the inn stands like a silent sentinel, watching over the other houses.
From a distance, the inn looks imposing, but up close, the peeling paint and stained trim make it feel neglected.
The pale yellow trim is faded and dirty, giving off a general sense of worn neglect.
“Looks like something out of a horror movie,” I mutter.
“Why would Matthew ever stay here?” Dylan asks, looking up at the house looming over us. “That’s what we’re here to find out.” I park the truck in a small gravel lot next to the inn and cut the engine before looking over at Dylan. “Are you ready?”
He smirks, and I hate how good he looks. His black hair is messy and tousled, and my fingers itch to touch the strands to see if his hair is as thick and soft as I remember. Those blue eyes, the color of the sea, are deep and bright despite the dull light. “Are you?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I open the car door and get out. I go around to the truck bed, lift out my duffel bag, then Dylan’s suitcase, and the weight nearly pulls my arm from the socket.
“Holy shit.” I set his case down next to the truck. “What do you have in here, a body?”
“We’re here for five days. I didn’t want to risk running out of clothes.” He shoots my bag a disdainful look. “You can’t possibly have enough to wear in there.”
Of course, I brought enough clothes. More than enough—fresh jeans, shirts, and underwear for every day we we’re here. Besides, we’ll be tracing Matthew’s last steps in this town, talking to the people he knew, not attending some kind of gala function. I have everything I could possibly need.
Dylan slides out his case’s plastic handle and tips it forward on its wheels before he reaches for my hand and laces his fingers with mine.
The touch of his warm skin against mine sends a hum up my arm like a low-grade electric charge.
Goosebumps prick my skin, and my stomach pulls tight.
If I thought I was tense on the drive up, every part of me feels tight and brittle.
Like I might shatter into pieces at the lightest touch.
Instinctively, I try to yank my hand back, but Dylan’s grip tightens.
“What are you doing?” I snap.
He shoots me a pointed look and doesn’t let go. “We’re supposed to be a couple on a romantic getaway, remember? We have to act like we like each other.”
“I remember.” I haven’t stopped thinking about playing the role since Dylan called me his boyfriend in front of his friends.
I should hate it, after the way things ended, the way Dylan walked away from me like I meant nothing to him.
It should make every second I’m with him awful, a chore.
Instead, his hand in mine feels natural, right?
Discussing the state of the inn we’re checking into and arguing about our luggage feels easy, as if all the years between then and now had never happened.
Without letting go of Dylan’s hand, I hoist my bag over my shoulder and follow him inside.
The inn’s foyer is dark and oppressive. A cloying floral scent hangs in the air, thick enough to taste.
Dark paneling covers the walls, the same gleaming wood as the floors and flared staircase.
An ornate, rounded desk set in the back corner serves as the inn’s reception area, and Dylan taps the silver bell on the edge of the desk, a sharp chime cutting the quiet.
“I feel like we’ve stepped back in time,” he says, and before I can respond, a middle-aged woman, dressed in a too-tight skirt and blazer, her pink blouse gaping between the buttons just under her chest, emerges from a sitting room.
Her honey-blonde hair is cut in a severe bob, dry and brittle from over-processing.
She smiles and makes her way behind the desk, leaving a trail of perfume, that cloying, sweet scent, like an invisible jet stream behind her. “Checking in?”
Dylan nods. “The reservation is under Moore.”
Dylan made the reservation after I had left his place. I had a long drive back to Burlington ahead of me, and I’d been frustrated that I couldn’t talk Dylan out of what would no doubt turn out to be a huge mistake.