One of my dearest friends, Kade Supine, sat across from me at Adele’s Micro Brewery, which harbored youngsters in their early twenties, still wet behind their ears. The thirty-five-year-old, who looked like Ben Affleck with creamy brown eyes, pushed a wave of ink-black hair out of his eyes and begged me not to seek out the ashtray artist.
“He’s insane, Chad. You and I both know that. He lets no one on his island. There’s nothing normal about the man. I’ve heard rumors that he murders men with his bare hands, chops them up into little pieces, and eats them with endive salads and dandelion wine.”
I rolled my eyes, telling myself he consumed too much alcohol, drunk again. He had a problem with stopping at three Cape Cods, always pushing himself. “I’ll be fine, Kade. I’m sure Finn is just as
