As he stood at the far end of the swimming pool, drinking his second beer, I thought: He is here, but he is not here. And that was when Vita went over to him. They were too far away from me to hear anything they said, though once or twice Vita glanced at me, then looked back at Frank. And the way they stood, laughing, poking each other, they looked like husband and wife, or lovers.

Frank left, taking his brown bag and his two empty beer bottles with him, facing me and wordlessly winking, and raising one eyebrow—the eyebrow flash he knew infuriated me.

“He hates me,” I said.

Vita said, “Ever think, maybe it’s you?”

That was the second lunch.

Not long after, Vita said, “I need to tell you something.”

By then, I wasn’t happy anymore, so I knew exactly what she was going to say.

I start this way, with these long-ago lunches, when Frank and I were in our late fifties, because it was a turning point, deliquescing into something I never expected. And to give a glimpse of how odd, oblique, and unreadable Frank was, I guessed there was much more to know and wondered whether I’d find out what it was. And why, in the end, I wanted him dead.

But I have to go back to the beginning, in Littleford, when it was just the two of us.

Like what you just read? Click here to buy THE BAD ANGEL BROTHERS.

About the Author

© Zak Noyle

Paul Theroux is the author of many highly acclaimed books. His novels include The Lower River and The Mosquito Coast, and his renowned travel books include Deep South and On the Plain of Snakes. He divides his time between Hawaii and Cape Cod.

Connect on Social Media

Follow us for book news, reviews, author updates, exclusive content, giveaways, and more.