Page 10

Over the mahogany empire butler’s desk hung a solar system mobile from the days when Pluto was still classified as a planet.

His old yearbook—red with a silver ship’s wheel—lay atop the desk. A souvenir of the best—and worst—year of his life.

Andy picked it up, then put it down unopened. Better not. Better to leave the past right where it was. The present already felt like more than he could deal with.

Which reminded him…

What the hell was he going to do about Marcus?

He had tried talking. Many times. It was like hitting his head against a wall. Come to think of it, they had tried that too—or rather, Marcus had. Had tried hitting Andy’s head against a wall. Andy was eager not to repeat the experience.

He had done his best to make things work. Partly because he’d been afraid of what would happen if they did not work. But that was over. He no longer loved Marcus. Even if Marcus could change, as he kept promising he would—in between threatening to kill Andy if he left him—Andy was done. He had been done a year ago, but the effort—the danger—of ending their relationship had held him in stasis. Until that phone call from Uncle C.

If there was a bright side to any of this, it was that his uncle was safely out of Marcus’s path.

Ignoring Marcus would only make him angrier.

But talking to him wouldn’t help either.

Now that Marcus knew where he was, it was only a matter of time before he showed up. And then…

That was where Andy ran out of ideas.

Because the thought of trying to explain any of this to Chief Millard was pretty much unimaginable. What was he going to do? Ask for police protection? Maybe Ruthanne could babysit him.

No.

He’d have found asking the Philly police for help difficult. In Safehaven? No way.

He would deal with it. Somehow.

There was always the chance that Marcus would consider Andy unworthy of pursuit. He’d certainly said so often enough.

There was always the chance of hell freezing over.

Andy shivered.

Speaking of which, either the heating was on the blink again or Uncle C. was trying to save money by cutting back on utilities.

Andy checked the thermostat, and sure enough, it was set at a bone-chilling sixty-two degrees. He turned the heating up and went into the kitchen to see about fixing some kind of meal.

Here too, it seemed Uncle C. was cutting corners. The cupboards and refrigerator were bare. Almost literally.

That had to be remedied immediately. Andy was not prepared to subsist on oatmeal, frozen dinners, and Macallan 25. When Uncle C. did come home—and Andy refused to consider anything else—he was going to start eating real meals again.

Shrugging on his black top coat—he was going to need something more rugged in the way of menswear if he was wintering in Maine—Andy stepped out onto the little landing, locked the door, and went down the outside staircase.

He could have ordered Instacart, of course—or could he? Safehaven had a population of about four thousand. But in anycase, he needed a break from Uncle C.’s lonely and cloistered apartment. The walk to the corner grocery would do him good.

And it did.

The cold wind blowing off the harbor was bracing, and it felt good to be moving outside in the fresh air and afternoon sunshine.

By the time Andy reached Black and Swan, Safehaven’s only full-service grocery store, he was feeling a little more cheerful. A little more confident about the future.

The market had gone a bit bougie since the last time he’d been there. Which wasn’t a bad thing. The wine selection had improved substantially, they had added a deli section, and the bakery was stocked with fresh, still-warm baguettes when he arrived, mouth salivating, at the counter. Andy filled his basket with as much as he believed Uncle C.’s battered canvas totes could safely carry, tossing in Chuao chocolates and locally made jam at the last minute.

He took his place in the short line at the only open checkout counter, absently listening to local gossip, absently admiring the build of the guy in front of him—wide shoulders beneath a brown leather bomber jacket, narrow hips, and long, muscular legs encased in faded blue jeans. The man’s hair was an unruly sun-streaked brown.