Page 16 of The Man in the Cottage

I don't know what to say to that. I don't know what he's telling me, if he's telling me anything, or if I'm reading too much into a conversation about a fictional serial killer. But something has shifted between us, some wall coming down that I didn't even know was there.

"I should let you work," he says, pushing off from the counter. "Sounds like you have some writing to do."

"Wait." I reach out without thinking, my hand landing on his arm. He goes still, looking down at my fingers against his sleeve. "Stay. For a minute. I'll make coffee—real coffee, not the cold sludge I've been ignoring all morning."

He should say no. I can see him thinking about saying no, weighing whatever is waiting for him at the cottage against whatever this is, this thing building between us that neither of us has named.

"Okay," he says.

I make coffee. He sits at the kitchen table, in the same spot he sat during dinner the other night, and watches me move around the kitchen. I'm aware of his eyes on me the whole time—when I reach for the mugs in the cabinet, when I pour the water into the machine, when I lean against the counter waiting for it to brew.

"Can I ask you something?" I say.

"You can ask."

"That's not a yes."

"It's not a no either."

I turn to face him, crossing my arms. "What do you do in the mornings? When you leave early. Where do you go?"

He's quiet for a moment. I watch him decide how much to tell me, watch the calculation happen behind his eyes.

"I work out," he says finally. "There's a gym. In town."

"A gym."

"Yeah."

"That's where you are every morning from six to ten? At the gym?"

"I like to stay in shape."

It's not a lie. I can tell that much. But it's not the whole truth either, and we both know it. He's giving me the surface of something, the version that's technically accurate but missing all the important parts.

I could push. I could ask what kind of gym, what kind of workout, why he comes back with his hair wet and his clothes changed like he's been doing more than lifting weights. But I think about what he said a few minutes ago—about having parts of yourself you don't want people to see, about knowing how to hide them—and I decide to let it go.

For now.

"Okay," I say.

He blinks, like he expected more of a fight. "Okay?"

"You'll tell me when you're ready." I turn back to the coffee maker, which is sputtering through its final cycle. "Or you won't. But I'm not going to interrogate you about your gym habits."

"Most people would."

"I'm not most people." I pour two mugs and carry them to the table, setting one in front of him. "Also, my grandmother trusted you. That note she left—she said you were a good one. And my grandmother was a lot of things, but she wasn't wrong about people."

Travis wraps his hands around the mug but doesn't drink. He's looking at me with an expression I can't read, something complicated moving behind his eyes.

"She was wrong about some things," he says quietly.

"Like what?"

"Like thinking I deserved her kindness."

I sit down across from him, close enough that our knees almost touch under the table. "Maybe you should let other people decide what you deserve."