Page 82 of The Meaning Of You

But it was mine to make.

So be it.

I elbowed Mads gently. “Shall we take a drive by Justin’s old house?”

Mads turned with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Nick

The round triphad taken just under an hour. It didn’t add a lot of new evidence but it did offer some context. There’d been little to see of Justin’s property—the house completely hidden from the road and contractor vehicles lining the drive. But the trip revealed exactly how close the two locations were, less than five and a half kilometres of twisting gravel road between them, which pretty much sealed the deal. Two major incidents involving two people who knew each other, possibly on the same day and only a few kilometres apart—they had to be connected. And remembering Davis’s phone call to me that day, I was almost certain.

Mads keyed in the alarm code and opened the front door. Cool air rushed to meet us and I couldn’t stop the groan of delight that bubbled up my throat.

He chuckled. “Revisiting your arbitrary life choices?”

I brushed past him with a scowl. “Not everything you like is good for you,” I said haughtily as I headed for the kitchen. “And air conditioning isn’t healthy.”

“Neither is boiling in your own skin.” Mads followed me inside. “But you’re welcome to take the code outside to work on if it makes you feel better. I’ll be inside, in the cool, when you’re done.”

I pinned him with a glare. “I’m sure I’ll survive inside. It doesn’t make sense to split up.”

“Riiiight.” He made no attempt to hide his smirk. “I need something cold to drink.” He walked toward the fridge, groaning at the sight of his phone still lying on the countertop where he’d left it after his shower. He walked past and opened the fridge. “Damn. I’m out of iced tea.”

“Iced what?” I stared at him. “What’s wrong with a beer?”

He groaned. “Because it’s not even lunchtime, that’s what’s wrong. Besides, nothing cools you faster than iced tea.”

“It’s lunchtime somewhere,” I argued. “And I’m pretty sure that’s not a statistically proven fact.”

He continued to stare into the fridge. “I think I have a spare bottle in the laundry fridge.” He took a step toward the lounge, but I jumped in front.

“I’ll look.” I waved him to a chair at the table. “You get started on the code. And was that a definite no to the beer or just a probably shouldn’t?”

The withering look he gave me as he sat needed no interpretation.

“Got it,” I said. “Two beers coming up.”

He shook his head. “You think you’re funny but you’re not.” He settled his glasses on his nose and started scribbling. They suited him, the thin metal frames doing nothing to detract from those gorgeous emerald eyes. That familiar notch of concentration dipped between his brows, and the end of the pencil made its way between his teeth. He jiggled rather than chewed on it, but it was cute, nonetheless.

“I’ll be done faster if you stop watching.” He waved me away without looking up.

I left him to it and headed for the laundry with a smile on my face and a growing unease in my belly that I’d royally fucked up by letting him go. Too late.

The laundry fridge turned out to be anything other than the small backup variety I’d imagined. Instead, a four-door fridge/freezer behemoth took up half the small room.

“All this for one man.” I stared at the industrial-sized unit before randomly opening the top left door and discovering it full of wine. I took a minute to check out his taste, recognised most of the labels as vintages I set aside in favour of cheaper ones—read: dirt cheap—and sighed.

“Wine snob? Tick.” I’d have been surprised at anything less.

In the top right compartment, I hit the jackpot. Several six-packs of excellent Hazy IPAs, a carton of low alcohol beer, a two-litre bottle of milk, a couple of packets of butter, and two bottles of iced tea, both peach. Not my favourite fruit. I grabbed an iced tea and one of the beers and then headed back, eager to see Mads’ reaction when he spotted the beer.

“You get eight out of ten for your taste in ale,” I said, walking back into the living room as I read the label on the iced tea. “But you lose points for this peach shit. Do you know how much sugar is in one of these?”

When Mads didn’t answer, I looked up and... froze. A man stood behind Mads’ chair, pointing a gun at his head. A very large man. Around my height but built like the refrigerator in Mads’ laundry, he wore jeans and a loose-fitting sweatshirt zipped to the neck with the hood pulled over his head. A medical facemask covered his mouth and nose, leaving only dark eyes and a few errant strands of brown hair visible.

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded, but when the man ignored me, my attention shifted to Mads whose wild eyesmanaged to somehow pull off terrified and furious at the same time.

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