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But if Judith had recently learned that Archie was inheriting the bulk of John’s estate, killing John would make even less sense. Alive, there was a chance John’s mind could be changed. Once John was dead, Archie inherited everything and it was all a done deal.

That didn’t mean that John’s will wasn’t the motive for his death.

But.

But maybe John’s will was the driver not the motive?

Was John’s will the catalyst?

Meaning what, though? For a moment, Archie felt like he was onto something, but then the feeling was gone.

Slowly, he climbed the staircase and let himself into his room. Adrenaline and sheer stubbornness had kept him on his feet and moving up to this point, but he had reached the end of his physical resources. There was no use fighting it. If he didn’t lie down soon, he was going to fall down.

As he closed the door behind him, he noticed the windows were open, the draperies gusting in the summer breeze. It gave him pause. He had closed and locked the windows before leaving that afternoon, but the neatly made bed and stack of clean towels indicated the maids had been in to clean the room. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.

Which was a good thing, because all he wanted right now, all he had energy for, was sleep.

He toed out of his leather Kiziks and dropped down on the neatly made bed, letting himself fall back into the stack of pillows. He stared up at the shadows from the garden swaying against the high slanted ceiling. Summery garden smells drifted through the windows.

He continued to insist John was his father and was deliberately and knowingly rejecting his obligations—rejecting him, in fact.

Archie blinked wearily over that last and most disturbing revelation of Beau’s.

First of all, Monig was a grown man. So, what did obligations mean to him? Had he been looking for financial support or was his grudge based on feeling personally rejected? A little of both?

Jon Monig had barely registered on Archie’s teenaged radar—and probably likewise. Monig had been older, of course, but it was doubtful they’d have had much in common even if they’d been peers. Tall, gawky, and bespectacled, Monig always had a book with him and it was always something weirdly esoteric, something—in the cynical opinion of the teenaged Archie—designed to be a statement rather than actual reading material.

Archie had never noticed Monig showing any particular interest in or affection for John, but again, he had mostly dismissed the older boy as an occasional accessory of Mila’s. Mila had been around a lot, at least for a time She and John had had a long and intimate relationship, and for a while there had been talk of their marrying.

The romance had fizzled out—Archie had no idea why, though he had been secretly relieved. He hadn’t disliked Mila, exactly, but she was a little bossy, a little pushy, a little abrasive. That had been his teenaged perception, and it probably hadn’t been any too fair. But he had definitely preferred John’s bachelor household to the house on the weekends Mila spent there.

Anyway, Mila and John had stayed friends and continued their business partnership after the romance fizzled.

He wished now he’d paid more attention to everyone else’s reactions during the reading of John’s will. It was not like him to sit there absorbed in his own thoughts and feelings. How much longer was he going to be wandering around in the mental fog of post-concussion?

But even if he’d been one hundred percent, the logistics of Jon Monig being John’s son were unclear to him. John’s relationship with Mila predated his arrival in Twinkleton, and Jon was a couple of years older than Archie, so maybe it was possible.

What wasn’t possible—what Archie would never believe—was that John would duck out on his paternal responsibilities. No way in hell. That had nothing to do with the active role John had taken as Archie’s guardian. It was about who John was. His strong sense of duty, sure, but also his innate kindness and empathy. If Monig was John’s son, John would not have needed a paternity test to get him to acknowledge the relationship.

But it wasn’t necessarily about the truth. It was about Jon Monig’s perception of the truth.

Archie blinked over that conclusion, eyelids growing heavier and heavier as he watched the hypnotic sway and bend of the shadows on the ceiling...

When Archie woke, it was almost ten, the room was dark, and he was starving.

He spent a few minutes trying to convince himself he wasn’t really that hungry, but his stomach loudly protested this theory, and finally he sat up and snapped on the bedside lamp.

By then it was ten-thirty. The hotel kitchen was closed, as would be most of the local restaurants, but he could probably find some place to grab a sandwich. Even a bag of peanuts at a mini-mart would be something.

He found his shoes and headed downstairs to the lobby, which was dark except for the light in the manager’s office behind the silent front desk.

Archie opened the front door and walked into the summery night. Moonlight bathed the garden in an unearthly silvery glow, casting gentle shadows on the cobblestone path. Fireflies flickered in the air, like tiny embers. The air was still warm, carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers—roses, lavender, and night-blooming jasmine. Leaves rustled overhead as though sharing secrets with the distantly murmuring Siuslaw River.

Twinkleton.

When he’d first heard it, he’d thought it was the dumbest possible name for a town.

But the truth was, at night, when the old-fashioned street lamps were glowing, and the window of the Victorian-era homes were shining, and the stars overhead glittered and sparkled…Twinkleton did sort of suit the place.