“I don’t, but I do enjoy plotting out the story. What interests me is the psychological motivation behind the crime. There are so many different reasons people kill. It takes something monumental to push most people over the edge, but someone else might be triggered by something as trivial as someone cutting them off on the motorway. And these people appear perfectly normal and balanced when you interact with them, until they snap.”
“Yes, I suppose they do,” I said, ready to change the subject. This conversation served to remind me just how little we really knew the people we trusted and how easily we gave that trust, assuming our judgment was sound and we were safe in their hands. “Did you really climb while at uni?” I asked.
“No. I just wanted to get that bloke talking, and a common interest usually does the trick. People love to talk about their passions.”
What’s yours? I wanted to ask but didn’t.
We made it back just in time for dinner and, of course, had to endure countless comments about going for a drive together. I suddenly felt like I was back at school, surrounded by catty teenage girls instead of at a writers’ retreat in the company of my peers.
“You certainly didn’t waste any time,” Len said, slapping Kyle on the shoulder in a universal gesture of male camaraderie. “Did the outing meet your expectations?” he asked, directing the question to me and winking just to make sure I didn’t mistake his meaning. “Aw, come now, don’t blush,” Len teased when I felt heat rising in my cheeks. “Or we’ll all think you have something to hide. Do you?” He leaned toward me. “You can tell us. We’re all adults.”
“Drop it, Len,” Kyle snapped.
But Len was nowhere near done. His gaze slid over Yvonne’s form-fitting burgundy dress. “Yvonne, shall you and I go for a drive tomorrow?” he asked, his voice velvety, the suggestion in his eyes unmistakable. “Maybe we’ll come back looking as furtive as these two.”
“Why not?” Yvonne replied. Her cooler-than-ice demeanor seemed to be cracking at an alarming speed. “I’d love to take a drive with you.”
“Excellent. I’ll map out a scenic route,” Len promised. “Did you actually see anything of interest, or did you just find a nice, secluded spot to talk?” he asked Kyle, his gaze turning flinty as he put undue emphasis on the last word.
“Don’t have to go far for that,” Anna chimed in. “This whole place feels like Cinderella’s castle after the spell has been cast.”
“Well, maybe some of us have been asleep for far too long,” Yvonne said, her gaze still on Len.
“I’ll be happy to wake you up, darlin’,” Len purred. “You just say the word.”
Yvonne suddenly turned to Kyle. “And what are you doing tomorrow?” she asked.
Kyle looked annoyed by the question but answered her, nonetheless. “Nicole and I have plans.”
“Do you now?” Len asked, raising his eyebrows as if he were Kyle’s father and Kyle had just announced he’d be staying out past curfew.
“We do. It’s work related,” I said. No one looked like they believed me, but that was just fine. What did I care? I didn’t owe these people an explanation.
“Anna, how’s the writing going?” I asked, eager to steer the conversation away from myself. I didn’t like being the center of attention, especially when said attention began to feel like bullying.
“Great. My new book is entitled Death in the Dales.”
“Charming,” Paul said, a bit sarcastically. “How did your character die?”
“Well, the reader is meant to think it was a climbing accident, but then we discover that the victim was already dead by the time he hit the ground,” Anna replied, smiling smugly.
“Can’t wait to read it,” Paul said. “Hey, anyone know anyone who speaks Russian?”
“No. Why?” Yvonne asked, clearly intrigued.
“Because I’d like to pepper my manuscript with Russian words, since my protagonist is on a mission in Moscow, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Meaning often gets lost in translation, so I don’t want to rely on Google.”
“You can always ask in the writing groups on Facebook,” Kyle said. “There are Russian-speaking authors there. I’ve met several. They’ll be happy to help.”
“What if they decide to take the piss?” Len asked. “Paul might ask them how to say ‘gun’ in Russian and they’ll give him the word for ‘cock’ instead.”
“His character can always cock his gun,” Yvonne said with a throaty chuckle.
“My gun is always cocked,” Len replied, lifting his brows suggestively.
I actually had to look down at my plate to hide the silly grin spreading across my face. Was this the best he could do? He sounded like a hormonal teenager who was compensating for his adolescent spots and lack of real-life sexual experience with what he believed to be wit.
“You can always double-check the meaning on Google,” Anna said. “And not everyone in the writing groups is a complete wanker,” she added, her tone implying that was exactly what she thought of Len.
“All right. All right,” Len said, raising his hands in a gesture of defeat. “You’re correct. The writing groups are very helpful. I dip into their bottomless pit of well-intentioned advice myself from time to time.”
“Are they? I never joined any,” Yvonne said. “I have no time for amateurs.”
Anna gave me a loaded look, and I lowered my eyes back to my perfectly poached salmon. Yvonne really was awfully full of herself.
“Anna, since everyone seems to be pairing up, would you like to take a walk with me tomorrow?” Paul asked. “Whenever you decided to take a break.”
“I’d love to,”
