Roger and I sat at his rustic dining table, its wooden top nearly as thick as the massive front door. Addy stood at Roger’s fancy stove, stirring a saucepan of milk and chocolate on one of its gazillion gas burners. He’d had sandwiches waiting for us, and Addy had offered to make hot chocolate before bed.
“That is… worrying,” Roger said. The master of understatement.
“The cop, or Blake Tucker?” I asked.
“Do I have to choose?” he asked, sipping at a glass of Macallan. “The big question is, are the two related?”
He’d offered me a drink, but I was holding out for hot chocolate. Still… I reached for his scotch, and he was too dumbfounded to stop me from taking a sip. It was malty, oaky, liquid amber burning down my throat, with a hint of sweetness as I settled back in my chair. “Wow.”
His
