Silence. Myron crushed it.

“Did you know about the texts between your wife and Chick Baldwin?”

The muscles in his face stiffened. “When?”

Interesting response, Myron thought. He looked at Win. Win found it interesting too. “Does that matter?”

“No,” Hunter said. “I don’t know, don’t care. And she isn’t my wife.”

Myron turned toward him. “I’m talking about back then. Before your son disappeared. Nancy and Chick were close to having an affair. Maybe they went through with it; I don’t know.”

Hunter’s grip on the gun tightened. He still stared out, but if the view was offering even an iota of comfort, you wouldn’t know it from his face. “Who cares?”

“Did you know?”

“No.”

He said it too quickly. Myron looked toward Win. Win said, “I found Fat Gandhi.”

That got Hunter’s attention. “Is he in jail?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He told me that Rhys is dead.”

“Oh my God,” Hunter said, but the surprise in his voice sounded forced. “He killed him?”

“No. He never met Rhys. He said that Patrick told him that Rhys is dead.”

“He said what?”

Win bit back a sigh. “Please don’t make me repeat myself.”

Hunter shook his head. “So let me get this straight. This psycho criminal who stabbed and almost killed my son”—Hunter looked at Win, then at Myron, then back at Win—“you believe him?”

“We do,” Win said.

“Hunter,” Myron tried, “don’t you think Patrick owes the Baldwins the truth?”

“Of course. Of course they’re owed the truth.” Hunter looked stunned now. “I’ll try to talk to Patrick about this as soon as I can. See what he says.”

“Hunter?”

It was Win.

“Yeah?”

“I’d like to use your washroom before we leave.”

Hunter smiled up at him. “You think they’re inside?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Win said. “Either way, I need to urinate.”

Only Win could use the word “urinate” in a completely natural way in a nonmedical setting.

“Use a tree.”

“I don’t use trees, Hunter.”

“Fine.”

As he started to his feet, Win easily grabbed the rifle from him, which was the closest thing to the old saw about stealing candy from a baby Myron had ever witnessed.

“I got a license,” Hunter said. “I can shoot deer on my property. It’s perfectly legal.”

Win looked at Myron. “Would it be beneath me to note that Hunter is a hunter?”

“Way beneath,” Myron said.

“Har-har.” Hunter stumbled toward the house. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you, uh, urinating and out of here.”

Chapter 30

Back in the car, Myron asked, “How was your urination?”

“Hilarious. They aren’t there. He’s alone. For now.”

Myron knew that had been Win’s play with the “urination” request. “So why was he holding the rifle?”

“Perhaps he was hunting. It’s his property. He has the right. Perhaps that’s his thing.”

“Hunting?”

“Yes. He sits out there on a lovely day, enjoys his view, imbibes his whiskey—then a deer strolls by and he blasts it.”

“Sounds like an awesome time.”