I turn then head for the stairs but stop when I hear a muffled gag to my right. It’s coming from the bathroom, which I now happen to notice is shut. I inch closer. There’s a thin stream of light gleaming below the door.
“Mr. Blackwood?” I give a gentle rap.
Another gag, some coughing, a choking sound, a flush.
What in the—
The door bursts open, barely missing me. Mr. Blackwood stands before me, one hand leaning on the doorframe, as he wipes his mouth with his shirt sleeve. “I see you’re busy minding your own business again,” he grumbles, before brushing past me and settling into his usual spot on the sofa.
I ignore the jab, mostly because I’m about to be doing a lot more ‘minding my own business’ in a minute, and pop into the kitchen to fill up a tall glass of water. I make my way back to the living room, setting the drink in front of him and taking a seat.
“Are you sick?” I ask.
“What does it sound like to you, brainiac?”
“Will you stop being difficult for five seconds?”
He only grunts, but I’m satisfied when he takes a sip of the water.
“What’s going on with you?” I press.
“I’m an alcoholic, didn’t you hear? Sometimes I overdo it and throw up. It’s not the end of the world.”
I narrow my eyes, looking him over. He was already frail when I’d met him, but I notice now that, despite his tall frame, he’s practically swimming in his thin coat. The bones around his shoulders and knees protrude noticeably, and I wonder if he’s always been so slight. “You promise you’re okay?”
“What’s it matter to—”
“Jesus, Mr. Blackwood, just answer the question.”
He pauses, looking me over in much the same way I was just doing to him. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
I’m not sure how much I believe him, but I let out a breath and nod. All right. Now for the tough part. I straighten my spine, cross one leg over the other, and fold my hands over my knee. It’s go-time. “So, I have a few questions for you.”
“Not this again.”
“I’m not leaving until you answer me this time.”
“Looks like you’re moving in, then, doesn’t it?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
He squints, looks me up and down. Clearly trying to determine if I’m bluffing. I arch an eyebrow that tells him just how serious I am. He gives me another signature grunt. He’s really a man of few words.
I decide to come straight out with it. “It’s about the Hawkins boys.”
In a split second, a rush of tormented emotion crosses his face. And just as quickly, it disappears. “And what would you know about the Hawkins family?”
I haven’t yet decided how much to reveal, worried if I tell him about the dreams it might scare him off and I’d never get any answers. For now, I’ll test the waters. “The other day, I read an article about what happened to them, the year they died.”
“You did, did you? You always spend your weekends reading about people dying?”
I don’t bother to suppress my eye roll. “Yes, it’s an uplifting hobby I decided to pursue.”
“You’re weird.”
“You’re weirder.” Okay, we’re getting off topic. “So what’s your connection to them? Were you close?”
The rush of emotion I’d glimpsed earlier comes baring itself full force, wrinkles creasing and eyes flashing, and he’s pushing himself off the seat. “I’m not doing this, not today—” His words are mumbled and angry and warbled as he stumbles toward his cane. “Don’t need to talk about anything I don’t want—” He’s adjusting his weight on the cane, then aiming for the exit. “Goddamn nosy people everywhere I damn look—”
