Chapter Seventeen
Dylan
It’s a full day later before we leave the hospital and start back to the inn. Paramedics insisted on taking Hunter to the hospital, which I completely agreed with, despite Hunter arguing that he was fine. He clearly was not.
While the doctor who treated him assured us that most of his injuries were superficial, mostly scrapes and bruises and a mild concussion, which, if I’m honest, didn’t sound all that superficial to me, his knee is another story. It was painful and badly swollen.
A corticosteroid injection gave Hunter almost instant relief from the inflammation, but the doctor warned him that if he didn’t go easier on himself, he’d be looking at knee replacement surgery sooner than later.
Through the entire exchange, I sat in the chair next to Hunter’s bed, practically biting holes in my tongue to keep from interjecting while Hunter nodded along with the doctor because, despite having been apart for the past decade, I knew Hunter well enough to know that he wouldn’t go easier on himself.
He never did. He always focused on everyone else, putting himself last. He’d never taken care of himself, even back when we were teenagers.
Case in point, when I asked him if he wanted me to call his mother or sisters, he shook his head and told me not to bother. He didn’t want them to worry.
The memory of him sprawled out on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, unmoving, still sent a chill through me like an icy wind. For just a split second, I had thought he was dead. My stomach clenched.
“It wasn’t nothing. You fought an intruder, who would have done who knows what if you hadn’t been awake, and then fell down the stairs. You could have broken a bone. You could have slipped into a coma. You could have died.”
He reached out and took my hand, offering a reassuring squeeze. “I’m okay. I’ll be out of here shortly.”
I sighed, frustrated with how careless he could be with himself.
Now, though, as I steer Hunter’s truck down the slick, snow-coated road toward the inn, all that nonchalance vanishes. He watches my every move with narrowed eyes and grips the door handle as if to physically stop himself from taking over.
“You know,” I say, fighting to keep from smirking. “I’ve driven before. I even have my own car.”
He nods, but doesn’t look away from the road or the flat, wet snowflakes the wipers sweep off the windshield. “The roads are slick.”
I just grin.
In spite of everything, I can’t wait to get back to the inn.
And that realization makes my skin crawl.
The antiseptic stink from the hospital clings to my skin and clothes, and I want nothing more than to stand under the hot spray of the shower and wash it all away.
Maybe even the memory of Hunter at the bottom of the stairs.
The inn looms ahead at the end of the road. The gray clapboard and yellow shutters, combined with smoke curling from the chimney, give a false sense of comfort, as if the house was trying to lure us into believing that nothing bad happened here or ever could. My stomach twists.
“There’s a police cruiser,” Hunter says, nodding at the car parked at the end of the drive.
“Huh,” I mutter. We’d expected the cops to turn up at the hospital, but they never did.
Hunter exhales through his nose. “Guess they didn’t forget us after all.”
“What will you tell them?”
“The truth.”
The truth? That he was a private investigator pretending to be my boyfriend while we tried to find a man I’d only known a few weeks before he vanished? It sounded crazy, but after someone sneaked into our room, maybe it wasn’t that crazy after all.
Inside, the warmth hits first, easing a little of the tension gripping my shoulder, only to return when my gaze lands on a fortyish woman, dark hair, streaked with gray, pulled into a tight ponytail, dressed in a long, open camel coat that reveals dark pants and a white blouse.
She stands next to the front desk, notebook in hand, badge clipped to her belt.
Jim stands next to her, hands shoved into his pockets, looking smaller than I remember. Nancy is nowhere to be seen.
The detective looks up as we come in. “Mr. Moore? Mr. Cade?”
Hunter stiffens beside me. “That’s right.”
“I’m Detective Alvarez. Glad to see you’re out of the hospital.” Her gaze flicks to the bruise on the side of Hunter’s face. “How are you holding up?”
“Been better,” Hunter admits.
She nods, already writing. “I was just finishing up with Jim here. We’re trying to get a clearer picture of what happened last night.”
Jim’s eyes dart to Hunter, then to me. He looks wrung out. Pale.
“Nancy isn’t here,” Alvarez continues. “Jim explained she was out of the inn overnight?”
“Yes,” Jim says quickly. “She... uh... she was at her parents’ place in town. Our children live there. It’s easier while they’re in school and keeps them from under our guests’ feet.”
Alvarez looks to Hunter. “You can confirm she wasn’t here?”
Hunter shakes his head. “I didn’t see her.”
“Neither did I,” I add.
Alvarez makes another note. “Jim said he didn’t hear anything unusual until...?” She lets the silence stretch.
“Until the thud,” Jim says, voice rough. “Sounded like someone falling down the stairs. I... I assumed it was Hunter. By the time I got out there, he was already... you know.” He trails off, shame written all over his face.
Alvarez turns to Hunter. “Jim says he didn’t see or hear anyone else. For all he knew, there may not have been an intruder at all. Just a bad fall.”
The room stills.
Hunter straightens, pain or anger sharpening his features; I’m not sure which. “There was someone in our room.”
Jim winces. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. Just that I didn’t see—”
“I was awake,” Hunter cuts in. “I saw him from the bathroom. A figure, standing over Dylan while he slept. It was dark, but he was there. When I yelled, he moved. I tackled him in the hall, but he got away from me. When I went after him, my knee gave out on the stairs.”
Alvarez studies him carefully. “You couldn’t identify the person?”
“No,” Hunter shakes his head. “Too dark.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No.”
“Did you recognize his build? Height? Anything at all?”
Hunter shakes his head again, frustration bleeding through his control. “Just... a man. That’s all I’ve got. It all happened so fast.”
Jim clears his throat. “I’m so sorry. If I’d heard something sooner—”
Alvarez lifts a hand. “You did what you could with the information you had.” She looks back at us. “We checked your room this morning. No forced entry. No obvious disturbance. Whoever was in there knew what he was looking for.”
I swallow. “Matthew’s camera bag is gone.” When Hunter was staying overnight in the hospital, I popped back to our room for a quick shower and change of clothes and noticed it was gone.
Her gaze flicks to me. “Camera bag?”
“Yes,” I say. “Black. Expensive. It was in our room last night. It’s gone. It belonged to a friend, and he’s missing too.” I feel Hunter stiffen beside me.
Jim’s face drains of color. “I... I had no idea.”
Alvarez’s pen scratches faster now. “That’s important. Thank you for telling me.”
Jim swallows hard. “Listen, I can’t say how bad I feel. I know this doesn’t fix anything, but we’ll comp part of your stay. Whatever you need.”
Hunter nods stiffly, and Alvarez snaps her notebook shut. “I’ll be in touch. If you remember anything else, anything at all, call me.” She hands Hunter a card, then turns to Jim. “I’ll need Nancy to come down to the station when she’s back.”
When the door closes behind the detective, the inn feels quieter than it should. Like it’s listening. Jim mumbles another apology and retreats to the back, leaving us standing in the lobby with our thoughts and the soft tick of the old clock on the wall.
Together, we slowly head upstairs. Hunter grips the banister, each step measured. I stay close, ready to catch him if he stumbles.
Inside our room, nothing looks disturbed. Bed made. Curtains half-drawn. But the absence is obvious. Matthew’s bag is gone, and if Hunter hadn’t uploaded the files for Matthew’s film onto his laptop, any evidence of what Matthew had been working on would be gone too.
Hunter lowers himself onto the bed and slips a pillow under his knee.
I frown and take a step toward him. “Is your knee bothering you?”
He shakes his head. “I’m just making sure to rest it, following the doctor’s orders.”
My gaze narrows, and I’m not sure if I believe him. “Do you need ice?”
“I’m good. I promise.”
I sink onto the mattress next to Hunter, unconvinced but willing to let the subject drop... for now. “Whoever took Matthew’s camera really didn’t want us to see his footage.”
“Lucky for us, it didn’t occur to him that I’d copied Matthew’s files onto my computer.”
For a long moment, we’re both quiet. I can’t stop thinking of Matthew’s film, a film he’d very likely died for, and my stomach churns.
“Who do you think was in the room?” I ask.
Hunter hesitates, just a fraction. “Lyle.”
The name lands heavily between us.
“He saw us with it yesterday,” Hunter continues. “He would have known it was Matthew’s.”
“And he knew Matthew was working on the documentary,” I add. A chill dances down my spine. “You think he came looking for it.”
“It makes sense,” Hunter says. He takes my hand in his. “He’s got motive, and he’s not exactly subtle.”
I picture Lyle’s smile, sharp around the edges. “He’d also know the layout of the inn. He’s done work around here.”
Hunter exhales. “I don’t see a stronger candidate.”
Neither do I, and it scares the hell out of me. I remember the bruises around Matthew’s neck. What would Lyle have done if Hunter hadn’t already been awake?
Hunter shifts and goes rigid, pain cutting across his face before he can mask it.
I let go of his hand and stand up. “I’m getting you ice.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
His sharp tone hits like a slap, and I stand frozen next to the bed. “Let me help you.”
For a split second, I think he’ll let me. His gaze flicks to his knee, something vulnerable flashing there.
Then the walls slam back into place.
“I’m fine, Dylan.” His voice goes flat, professional. “You don’t need to—”
“I want to.” Frustration creeps into my tone. “You fell down a flight of stairs last night. Let me at least—”
He shakes his head. “I said I’ve got it.”
The distance hits harder than the rejection. This cool detachment feels worse.
“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile that feels stiff and unnatural on my face. “Whatever you want.”
The longer we play at being boyfriends, the more this act messes with my head. Some traitorous part of me wants it to be real. Wants the concern in his eyes to mean more than obligation.
Silence stretches between us. Somewhere downstairs, a door opens and closes.
Finally, Hunter leans back against the pillows, exhaustion seeping through the cracks he can’t quite hide. His eyes close for a second longer than a blink.
“Get some sleep,” I say gently. “You need to rest.”
He cracks an eye. “We need to figure out what to do next.”
“We will,” I promise. “After you rest. There’s nothing we can do in the next hour that can’t wait.”
Hunter hesitates, pride warring with pain. Then his shoulders sag.
“Fine,” he mutters. “One hour.”
I help him shift, this time without protest. I arrange pillows and make sure his knee is supported. He looks younger like this, guard lowered despite his best efforts.
“Wake me if anything happens,” he says.
“I will,” I promise.
He’s asleep within minutes, his breathing growing even. I sit beside him, watching his chest rise and fall, my thoughts racing.
Someone stood over this bed last night. Someone wanted what Matthew left behind, and Hunter almost paid for it with his life.
I brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, careful not to wake him. This relationship might be an act. But the fear curling in my gut? The way my heart clenches every time I look at him? That part is all too real.