Page 29 of Twisted Paths

Nancy

Ipullthetripodout of my bag and extend the legs, setting it up on the coffee table. Luke watches the process like I’ve just introduced some advanced piece of surveillance equipment into his home.

“You really came prepared,” he mutters.

“Of course I did,” I say, unlocking my phone and clipping it into place. “I wasn’t going to risk you escaping halfway through.”

He exhales sharply, arms crossing over his chest. His usual defensive stance.

I step back, tilting my head as I scan the room. “Alright, where’s the best light?”

Luke shrugs. Completely unhelpful.

I try in front of the sofa first, adjusting the phone and stepping back to check the screen. Too many shadows. Luke looks like he’s about to give a tell-all interview about his time in the mafia.

“How about here?” I gesture toward the bookshelf.

Luke shakes his head instantly. “No.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why not?”

“Because it makes me look like I’m giving a lecture on crime fiction.”

I glance at the bookshelf behind him. The countless editions of John Brooks' books line the shelves, their spines all neatly arranged like they’re waiting for a photo shoot. I bite my lip, pretending to consider.

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

His eyes narrow slightly.

I grin. “Alright, fine. No bookshelf.”

I try by the window next, but the afternoon sun turns him into an ominous silhouette. Then, by the fireplace, where he looks like he’s about to issue a ransom demand.

Luke sighs. “We could always just not do this.”

I turn slowly to face him. “Luke.”

His lips press into a thin line. “Right. Not an option.”

I scan the room again, tapping a finger against my chin. His whole house is very Luke—clean, structured, with just enough warmth to make it look lived-in, but not enough to suggest he entertains many visitors. Then, I spot the conservatory.

Light. Bright. Full of green plants that look far too well-maintained for a man who barely seems to tolerate small talk.

I gesture towards it. “There.”

He exhales through his nose, but follows me in. I set up the tripod again, angling the phone, while he stands stiffly to one side, looking like he’s preparing for a disciplinary hearing.

“Sit,” I instruct.

He drops into the chair, arms folded, legs sprawled.

I study the screen, frowning. “Nope.”

He tilts his head back against the chair. “What now?”

“You’re slouching.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “I’m sitting.”

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