Page 11 of Hunting the Crossbow Killer

“At least you’re honest.” They both stepped outside and he slid the doors shut and settled the wooden bar through the handles to keep wild animals out. He motioned toward the cabin. “Are you okay going inside my cabin? Or do you prefer the porch? Unlike this workshop, there are chairs up there but it will be cold.”

She snugged her jacket closer. “I don’t want to inconvenience you any more than necessary—”

“Too late for that.”

“Are you always this ornery or am I special?”

He cocked his head. “This is me being nice.”

She let out a bark of laughter, then cupped her hands over her mouth, obviously mortified that she’d done so.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t tell your boss that you dared to laugh at a killer.”

Her jaw tightened and she dropped her hands. “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. There are things I read in your file that, well, I’d like a better understanding of what happened to put you in prison.”

“Why? What’s my past got to do with anything you’re investigating?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. You never know what piece of information will be helpful and what won’t until you put the whole puzzle together.”

“That only makes sense if I’m the one you’re calling the Crossbow Killer.”

She arched a brow.

He swore. “Fine. We’ll talk. But you’ll have to brave my lair to do so. I’m no longer willing to be cold on the porch for you.”

Without waiting for her, he jogged up the steps to the wraparound porch and headed around to the front door.

CHAPTER SIX

Aidan left the front door open and headed into the kitchen area, having no doubt that Malone would follow him inside the cabin. She was tenacious and wasn’t about to leave without getting what she came for. He just hoped that wasn’t him, in handcuffs.

“Holy moly,” she breathed as she came inside.

He grabbed a bottle of beer and a bottle of water from the refrigerator and carried them to the round table in the front right corner of the cabin. He set the water on the table, opposite him, and twisted open the beer for himself. As Malone toured her way around the great room of the cabin, mouth slightly open in wonder, he sipped his beer and watched her. Part of him couldn’t help feeling pride at her wide-eyed surprise as she ran her soft-looking hands over the rocking chairs, end tables, even the wooden animals he’d painstakingly carved over the past year for the grandchildren he’d likely never have.

She headed into the kitchen area just past him and stood in the middle, turning in a slow circle. “The cabinets,” she said. “Maple?”

He nodded. “Locally sourced.”

“Beautiful. You made those, along with most everything in the cabin? They have the same look, the same…expert craftsmanship as that table in your workshop.”

“They’re my work, yes.” He took another sip, telling himself not to let his ego get the best of him. Maybe she was impressed with his work, or maybe this was all part of a facade to make him like her, to feel comfortable enough to tell her whatever it was that she wanted to know. She wasn’t his friend, wasn’t on his side. He needed to remember that, no matter how much a part of him wished it could be different. The one consistent thing about his life ever since his wife’s death was an aching loneliness that no amount of hard work could fill, no matter how desperately he tried.

She finally joined him at the table, ignoring the chair across from him and instead sitting beside him. Maybe she hadn’t learned that lesson he’d tried to teach her after all, about getting too close to a potentially dangerous person.

“It’s incredible, gorgeous,” she said. “Everything you’ve built here. The cabin is amazing, too. These two-story-high ceilings are stunning. The carved banister on the staircase is amazing. And the picture windows frame the mountains like a master painter. Did you build this home, too?”

“Didn’t need to. I was lucky enough to find this place already here when I moved to Mystic Lake. The previous owner was retiring to Montana to be with his kids. He’s the one who commissioned the purpleheart patio table and chairs. The only thing I did was add the workshop and renovate the kitchen and bathrooms.”

She pulled the water bottle to her and twisted it open. “Thanks. Didn’t realize I was thirsty until I saw this.”

He nodded as she took a sip, then grudgingly said, “If you’re hungry, there’s some venison stew in the refrigerator, plentyenough to share. I’ve got fresh fruit, things for salad, too, if you want.”

She set the bottle down and crossed her arms on the tabletop. “It’s crystal clear that you don’t want me here, and yet you offer me food and drinks and welcome me into your cozy, warm cabin. Which man is the real Aidan O’Brien? The one who can’t help but act the host even when he doesn’t want any visitors, and offers safety tips, or the one who committed murder and went to prison for ten years?”

He winced and set his beer down. “No beating around the bush with you. You go right for the jugular.”

“I don’t know any easy way to ease into asking you about your wife’s death.”

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