E WAS A NICE-LOOKING bloke, Kevin thought to himself as he puttered about, sliding the toast out from under the lid of the range and fishing the butter out from the fridge. A bit older than Kevin. Late thirties, maybe? But fit. Bit of a limp that had become apparent yesterday as they were walking over the headland. And a nice smile, he thought to himself, putting two mugs of tea down on the table and turning back to the range to stir the porridge.
He nodded out of the window. “The storm is coming in,” he said. “Do you want to get your gear and wait it out here? I checked the forecast when I got up. It’s supposed to be a bad one.”
Webster looked at him, clearly surprised. “Are you serious? We just met. What if I’m an axe murderer?”
“You weren’t carrying an axe. Unless you have one buried
