Page 47 of Still Missing You

“I’m good. I promise.”

I sink onto the mattress next to Hunter, unconvinced but willing to let the subject drop... for now. “Whoever took Matthew’s camera really didn’t want us to see his footage.”

“Lucky for us, it didn’t occur to him that I’d copied Matthew’s files onto my computer.”

For a long moment, we’re both quiet. I can’t stop thinking of Matthew’s film, a film he’d very likely died for, and my stomach churns.

“Who do you think was in the room?” I ask.

Hunter hesitates, just a fraction. “Lyle.”

The name lands heavily between us.

“He saw us with it yesterday,” Hunter continues. “He would have known it was Matthew’s.”

“And he knew Matthew was working on the documentary,” I add. A chill dances down my spine. “You think he came looking for it.”

“It makes sense,” Hunter says. He takes my hand in his. “He’s got motive, and he’s not exactly subtle.”

I picture Lyle’s smile, sharp around the edges. “He’d also know the layout of the inn. He’s done work around here.”

Hunter exhales. “I don’t see a stronger candidate.”

Neither do I, and it scares the hell out of me. I remember the bruises around Matthew’s neck. What would Lyle have done if Hunter hadn’t already been awake?

Hunter shifts and goes rigid, pain cutting across his face before he can mask it.

I let go of his hand and stand up. “I’m getting you ice.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

His sharp tone hits like a slap, and I stand frozen next to the bed. “Let me help you.”

For a split second, I think he’ll let me. His gaze flicks to his knee, something vulnerable flashing there.

Then the walls slam back into place.

“I’m fine, Dylan.” His voice goes flat, professional. “You don’t need to—”

“I want to.” Frustration creeps into my tone. “You fell down a flight of stairs last night. Let me at least—”

He shakes his head. “I said I’ve got it.”

The distance hits harder than the rejection. This cool detachment feels worse.

“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile that feels stiff and unnatural on my face. “Whatever you want.”

The longer we play at being boyfriends, the more this act messes with my head. Some traitorous part of me wants it to be real. Wants the concern in his eyes to mean more than obligation.

Silence stretches between us. Somewhere downstairs, a door opens and closes.

Finally, Hunter leans back against the pillows, exhaustion seeping through the cracks he can’t quite hide. His eyes close for a second longer than a blink.

“Get some sleep,” I say gently. “You need to rest.”

He cracks an eye. “We need to figure out what to do next.”

“We will,” I promise. “After you rest. There’s nothing we can do in the next hour that can’t wait.”