It was Trevor’s turn to talk right over me. “Bad enough you wouldn’t give your ticket to him. But that you had the gall to use it. You don’t even like traveling. You hate traveling.”

At the far end of the hall, the elevator doors dinged and opened. A man in a tan trench coat stepped out, wheeling a suitcase behind him. He looked our way and hastily headed in the opposite direction.

I lowered my voice. “I don’t hate traveling. I never had the chance to travel before.”

Trevor’s face twisted in scorn. “That’s bullshit. How many times did I want to go away for the weekend or for a vacation? You would never go. All you’ve ever cared about is your garden and your books.”

“I’d have loved to travel. We didn’t have the money!”

“That was always your excuse.”

It wasn’t like vacations abroad had ever been a big point of contention between us, and the unfairness of it stung. “It wasn’t an excuse. You weren’t working. We didn’t have the money.”

His fair skin flushed even redder. “That’s right. Throw that in my face!”

“I’m not—it’s the truth. We didn’t have the money.”

“We all know you’re just doing this to ruin my trip.”

We all? Meaning him and Vance? Or had he aired our dirty linen at dinner? My heart sank at the idea. I said, “Believe it or not, my life doesn’t revolve around you anymore.”

He laughed in disbelief. Granted it was a stagy laugh—Trevor was active in our local amateur theater and had received a lot of compliments for his Inspector Bullock 2 in Murder Afoot.

“Since. When? We all know you’re planning to spend the entire trip spying on me and Vance, trying to make me feel guilty.”

“Spying on you?” I had to lower my voice once more as the man in the trench coat—having disappeared down the hall and around the corner—reappeared, headed back our way, still dragging his suitcase. “You’re crazy!”

Trevor did not follow my cue, but then he was perfectly comfortable in front of an audience. “Are you going to pretend you weren’t watching us all through dinner?”

“You’re crazy,” I said again. “I wasn’t watching you. I don’t care what you do. I loved Vanessa way before you ever did.”

“I always loved Vanessa—” Trevor stopped and glared as the guy with the suitcase halted at my door, making himself part of our little tableau.

My heart dropped another couple of floors as I realized who he must be.

“Can I help you?” Trevor asked in his most forbidding tone.

Jesus, he could be such a prick. Why had it taken me so long to notice that about him? Or, rather, why had I convinced myself that his being such a prick didn’t matter?

The newcomer—medium height, brown hair, brown eyes—looked from Trevor to me. “Er, I think this is my room.”

“John Knight?” I said.

“That’s right.”

I offered my hand. “Carter Matheson.”

John had a firm grip. His hands were cold, and rain dotted the shoulders of his trench coat.

“Nice to meet you, Carter.” His voice was a pleasant baritone. I don’t think I imagined the curiosity lurking in his gaze.

I nodded toward Trevor, who continued to glower. “And this is Trevor Temple. He’s also on the tour.”

“So I hear.” John said it so blandly I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not.

Trevor’s eyes narrowed; he thought John was being sarcastic, but before he could respond, John offered his hand again.

“Nice to meet you, Trevor.”

Trevor shook hands automatically, and I moved aside so John could wheel his suitcase into the room.

“Not so bad,” John said with determined cheerfulness, glancing around the beige economy-sized cell.

“It’s a little cramped,” I said. “But we’re only here for the night. I took the bed nearest the window, but if you—”

“No, that’s fine. I prefer to be by the john.”

Hmm. Bathroom issues perhaps?

“Hello? Remember me, Carter?” My uneasy speculation was interrupted by Trevor, who could never stand to be ignored for long.

“How could I forget?” I retorted.

He looked from me to John, who eyed us both with polite interest.

Maybe Trevor found the presence of a grownup in the room as inhibiting as I did. He turned back to me and said darkly, “Just understand. This isn’t over.”

I amped my glare but otherwise restrained myself to closing the door in his face.

John, his back to me, was busily unzipping his suitcase. He said, “I was afraid you’d have already gone to bed.”

I appreciated his tact in ignoring the spat between me and Trevor. Or maybe he was too jet-lagged to notice. Either way, I was grateful.

“No. Trevor and I were just…” I watched him pull out a brown leather kit bag and a brown plaid bathrobe, and instead asked, “How was your flight?”

He threw me a quick look and smiled. “Long.”

John wasn’t exactly handsome, though he had a nice smile and attractive, regular features. He looked to be in his late thirties, around my own age, which was a surprise since everyone else on the trip, except for Trevor and Vance, was at least a decade older than me. I’d discovered Vanessa’s books in my twenties, so it never occurred to me that her bus tours might lean toward an older demographic.

“Yeah. I’m from LA. I arrived this afternoon. It was a long trip.”

John made no response. I searched for something else to say. “I managed to read all of Wolverine on my flight,” I offered.

John nodded politely. “Okay if I use the john?”

“Sure. I’m all through in there.”

John vanished into the tiny bathroom and closed the door.

I climbed gingerly into my twin bed. I hadn’t slept in a bed this small since my college dormitory years—which, come to think of it, was the last time I’d shared a room with someone I wasn’t planning to have sex with.

I set the alarm on my phone, wondering if any of our neighbors had heard me and Trevor squabbling. We hadn’t gotten too loud until we reached the point of debating who loved Vanessa more, and there would probably be a lot of that on this trip.

I sighed and scrunched the flattened, spongy excuse for a pillow under my head, staring out the long rain-starred window at the lights of the airport across the road.

The bathroom door opened and John stepped out, modestly tying his bathrobe around his waist. “What time do we leave in the morning?”

“Nine. Right after breakfast. We stop in Pitlochry for lunch and shopping. We’re on our own for the noon meal, but there’s a rest stop before that in Tyndrum, and I think everyone will head for the roadside café where Vanessa murdered the little ginger-haired waitress in Pressure Cooker.”

John’s expression was blank. I thought I understood the reason.

“It’s one of the standalones,” I said. “Maybe you only read the MacKinnons?”

“Maybe.” He sounded cautious.

“It seems like a lot of people on the tour never read past the last MacKinnon book, so don’t feel alone.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “No, I won’t. You said you’re from Los Angeles?”

“Right.”

“Do you go on these tours all the time?”

“No. This is my first. My first bus tour. My first any kind of tour.”

“Mine too.” He smiled. “What’s the group like?”

“Well, too soon to tell, really. Tonight was our first official get-together. Everyone seems nice.”

“Good. I guess a few people arrived early. Like yesterday?”

“I think so. To do a little sightseeing and shopping.”

“But not you? You only arrived today?”

“Right. I’ve been here since three o’clock Glasgow time.” Which had been…seven in the morning back in LA and probably accounted for this weird mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. Or maybe that had to do with the argument with Trevor. Were we going to spend the next ten days fighting? Well, why not? We’d spent the past ten months fighting.

“I see.” Was John disappointed I hadn’t arrived early for shopping and sightseeing? It kind of sounded that way. Why should he be?

“Is it your first time in Scotland?”

“Yes.” He said, “I guess the tour has a block of rooms on this floor?”

“I think Alison said we were on the third and fourth floors.”

He nodded. Meeting my look of inquiry, he said, “Well.”

“Well?”

He smiled awkwardly. “Just…well.”

“Oh.” I nodded. “Right. Well!”

Oh God. This was going to be ten days of hell.