“I don’t get into town nearly as often as whoever told you I did.” The man set down his spoon in order to reach across the table. “Matthew Soto.”
Now he had a name. If he spoke with the police, he’d know exactly where to point them. Except then they’d ask why he didn’t tell them in the first place.
“Calvin Schumacher.”
The clasp of their hands was firm and even. Expected. Normal. The heat leaping from Matthew’s was not. His skin felt flushed with fever, far warmer than the diner’s interior should have allowed, like it might combust at any moment. It enflamed Calvin’s flesh and charged up his wrist, into his arm, only dissipating when it hit his chest.
His eyes leapt to Matthew’s. A small line had appeared between his thick brows, and he stared at Calvin as if it was the first time they
