Page 21 of The Leaving Kind

She patted his arm and gestured toward the door. “Off you go to your Star Trek. I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?”

“Tomorrow.”

Ten minutes later, heading north on Milford Road, Cam sucked in a breath as he approached an all-too-familiar turn. Would he or wouldn’t he? Luisa had given him enough to think about that he could go straight home, crack open that sixer, and contemplate all the ways in which he could a) fuck up a tree farm or b) make something of it. Luisa had done an admirable job of maintaining a business that had been around for decades. It was a part of the landscape and the community. What had started as a Christmas tree farm had become much, much more.

Where would he find the money to compete with any offers she might get from a property developer, though? And did he even want to? His one and only previous attempt to invest in a business had gone the way of the woman he’d thought about marrying—quite literally—and he only had himself to blame. Naivete and absolutely no business sense whatsoever, apparently. He should have known how to tell whether a deal was too good to be true. Or if someone wasn’t actually into him.

Blinking back to awareness, Cam frowned at the scenery outside the car and realized he’d made the turn. He was on Raymondskill Road.

Damn.

He slowed down for the curve by Melanie’s place. The lawn already needed another trim. Also, now that the long grass had been cut away from the beds lining the front and the hedges running up either side of the lawn, further signs of neglect were evident. Weeds and woody shrubs, perennials that needed thinning out or replacing. The brickwork beneath the front windows of the house could use some mortar. He’d bet the windows leaked as well.

He’d put together another list, he decided as he cruised past and into the long curve that would bring him to his next decision. Unfortunately, thought did not sweep him away, letting his hands guide the car to where his subconscious wanted to go. Cam was fully cognizant of his surroundings when he slowed to a pause before Victor Ness’s driveway. Then, because other people might like to use the road, he indicated and turned. What the heck. He didn’t have to go all the way up. He could sit there a minute and then back out. Turn around and go home.

Or he could go all the way up to the circle at the top, check whether Victor had spread his mulch. He’d need to remove the tarp soon if he hadn’t. Let some air in.

He was at the top of the driveway. Thank you, subconscious.

Now what?

The house sat quiet and still in the late-afternoon light. Not that houses generally made noise or danced, but the silence felt off somehow. Vacant. Maybe Victor wasn’t home? That would be fortuitous, seeing as Cam had arrived uninvited. Again.

The tarp still covered the mulch, but the trees had been moved. Cam nodded in approval before discovering he’d opened the car door and put a foot out onto the gravel. He’d check the mulch. Make sure rot hadn’t already set in.

He crunched over to the tarp and peeled back a corner. Given the position, off to the side of the drive and beneath the shade of some grand old oaks, it wasn’t doing too badly. After replacing the tarp and stone, Cam peered through the windows running across the upper quadrant of the garage doors. The lack of light inside meant he could see practically nothing. He could make out the hulking shadow of a car on the left side, though.

Unless someone else had picked him up, Victor was home.

So why did the house feel so still?

Cam ducked into the path between the garage and the house, the one that led to the patio behind the kitchen. He stepped quietly, anxiety prickling his scalp. He’d check on the trees and go before Victor caught him trespassing again.

The arrangement of furniture across the patio had changed. Chairs moved into groups around the fire pit, the table dragged near to the grill. Small cuts of ribbon fluttered from the backs of two of the chairs. A red Solo cup had caught in between the low wall of flat rocks lining one of the beds and the red-painted siding of the house.

The first of the trees had been placed, pot and all, on the far side of the patio in a spot that would suit it. The colorful leaves would brighten the view from that side of the kitchen and offer shade.

Cam crossed to the tree and crouched to dig his fingers into the pot. Well-watered, but it should be in the ground.

The second of the trees faced a set of narrow, uneven windows. Cam hadn’t seen this part of the house—being the back. The windows almost resembled arrow slits, and the towering shape of the wall made him think of castle staircases. With its odd and sprawling layout, the house might have more than one way to the second floor. He’d love to see the inside. It must be a veritable rabbit warren of rooms in all different sizes and with ceilings of different heights.

How had such a house come to be?

The third tree sat in the middle of a south-facing lawn. The placement seemed odd. Perhaps Victor had left it there until he decided exactly where it should go. Hopefully not into the line of trees behind it. A dogwood like this one should have a home all its own. A small circle of friends to bask in its glory but not a lot of shade.

He glanced toward the windows gazing out over the lawn and realized he’d nearly circumnavigated the house. Still treading carefully, quietly, Cam approached the windows. The sense of trespassing grew heavier with each step, pinching his shoulders and elevating his pulse. He could hear the blood swishing through his veins.

I should go back to the car.

He should stop being so goddamn curious. Or nosy. Or—

“Oh my God.” Was that a body?

Raising his hands to shade the window, Cam peered through the glass. A vast studio space lay beyond. Several easels were set at different angles, some facing the window, some away. Canvases of different dimensions sat on a couple, but most were empty. He registered an ordered sort of clutter surrounding the walls: tables, a couple of chairs, narrow shelves and cubbies. His most immediate concern, however, was the figure supine on the floor.

Arms slack at his sides, feet turned out, and with a goddamned cat curled up on his chest, lay Victor. His lips were parted, his eyes closed. And not a muscle twitched. Not a hair stirred.

No longer caring whether his presence was appropriate or legal, Cam tapped on the window. Victor did not move.