“Want to try some more target practice?” he asks.
“Right now?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“I’m a little shaken at the moment.” I narrow my eyes at him.
He glances up at me and shrugs.
“All right. You hungry? You still haven’t eaten much.”
“No, but I think Christine could use some help with dinner.”
“Gotcha. I’ll be nearby.”
I close my eyes and shake my head. I don’t know how he can be so nonchalant about someone in the group apparently being murdered. I know he’s seen a lot of death—he’s told me a little about his combat experiences—but this is different.
It is to me, anyway.
I need to keep myself busy, so I walk over to Christine and start to help her out. She smiles and hands me a dishtowel.
“What do you think happened?” I ask quietly. I glance at Falk, but he’s just sitting on the chair by the fire, using a sharpening stone on one of his knives.
“I think he pissed off the wrong person,” Christine says. She finishes up a large pot and hands it to me. “I think a nice big pot of stew would work well tonight.”
“Sounds good to me.” I have no appetite, but I like the idea of staying busy. Chopping up whatever fresh vegetables are still left is as good as anything.
Christine seems to make up her recipe as we go along, adding a little of this and a little of that to some browned onions at the bottom of the huge pot near the coals of the cooking fire. I hand her whatever she asks for, and she stirs and hums a little. I don’t recognize the tune, but her tone is calming.
“I saw you coming out of that shed,” she says softly. She shoots a glance at Falk before continuing. “I saw him stumble out right after, looking pretty shitfaced. Beck upset you—that was pretty clear.”
“He was just drunk.”
“He was shitfaced,” she repeats. She hands me the large spoon and instructs me to keep stirring while she opens some cans of broth. She nods in Falk’s direction. “Did you tell him?”
“Falk noticed I was upset.” I chew on my lip as I stir the contents of the pot. “I didn’t tell him exactly what happened.”
“What did happen?”
“It was nothing, really.”
Christine stops twisting the can opener and gives me a look.
“He was drunk,” I say again. “He kept asking me questions. He didn’t really do anything. He was just being his obnoxious self.”
“Did Falk think it was nothing when you told him?”
I look up from the pot and sigh.
“Do you think he did it?” I ask bluntly. “Do you think he went over to Beck’s apartment and strangled him? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m not saying anything,” she says as she twists open another can. “Can’t help but wonder though. They definitely didn’t get along.”
“He was with me all night.” I lick my lips and wonder if I would have woken up if Falk had gotten out of bed and left the apartment. Christine is right about one thing—Falk had been mad last night—really mad. This morning he was quite chipper.
“I’ve seen how he looks at you, you know,” Christine comments.
“What are you talking about?”