There was no correlation between Tupper’s cheerful texts and his dead-infant haunted house. As he walked, Roy googled him. A bio appeared with his neighbor’s picture. Tupper Paulsen was an industrial designer, creator of the Macaw—a decorative hollow bird sculpture that could either neatly store all your wires and cables or secretly stash a spare cell phone for surveillance purposes. The most ingenious thing about the Macaw was that it was white, not red like the actual bird, and blended in with the décor of absolutely any room. Stores couldn’t keep them on the shelves. Amazon was always sold out. Tupper Paulsen was a genius inventor and his wife, Elizabeth, was a well-known artist. No wonder they lived in the prettiest carriage house in all of Cobble Hill. They also definitely could have afforded to pay a professional cat sitter.

The bar was unlocked and the lights were on, but there was no one inside. It was just as Roy had left it that morning. He poured himself a Guinness, settled onto a barstool, and opened up his laptop. After all these years, he’d mastered the affect of “writing” to perfection.

The word Gold glared menacingly from the screen. He deleted it, typed the word Red in its place, and stared at it.

Red was bold. Leaves turned red in autumn. Apples were red. Fast cars were red. Red wine was red. But so was blood. He didn’t do horror or murders or gore.

“Hello?”

“Hiya.” Roy slammed his laptop shut.

Tupper Paulsen slid onto the barstool next to him and held out his hand. It was cold and thin.

“Trying to write in a bar these days. Never done it before.”

Tupper nodded. His white shirt was open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It was a very relaxed look for him. “Is it working?”

“Nah. I don’t know. Too early to tell,” Roy admitted.

“Well, at least it’s quiet, this bar. You couldn’t find a quieter one,” Tupper said without looking around. He seemed to know the place.

“Odd spot, but I like it.” Roy got up and went around the bar. “Here, I’ll pour you a beer. What would you like?”

“Gin please. Nothing in it, just gin. It’s down to the right, below the dish—”

“Got it,” Roy said. It occurred to him that they were in the same business, creating something where nothing had existed before. And they’d both had some success at it.

“So, the Macaw, that was brilliant. Made anything good since?” he asked boldly.

Tupper shook his head. His wavy auburn hair was cut in a way that accentuated his high cheekbones, steely blue eyes, and red lips. If he had been born a girl, he would have been astonishingly beautiful. On a man it was simply off-putting.