Long as Tristan's list was, Quinn didn't seem to understand the concept of urgency. Before he could free himself of the city centre's busy throngs, they were dragging him into a mainstreet café, harping on about the importance of a good lunch and the wonders it would do on the brain's processing power.

Hunkered into the back corner, elbow propped on the table and chin resting on his fist as chatter buzzed endlessly around him, he wasn't sure he could agree any less. He could hardly hear himself think in here.

"All ordered!" Quinn announced, the chair opposite his creaking as they plopped themself onto it. In contrast, they were practically glowing amid the bustle, grin unshakeable.  They gripped the table's edge and leaned in. "Since you refused to tell me what you want, I got you a plain old cheese on toast. I decided it suits you."

That suited him down to the ground, but he wasn't going to give Quinn that satisfaction. Nor was he planning on admitting that the table they'd picked was a prime spot for watching the café's comings and goings. It sat half-hidden behind a pillar, unnoticeable on arrival, but provided an easy view of every other corner. It was unfortunate that being out of sight didn't block out the inevitable clamour of voices that leaked out from the other tables.

Someone thumped a fist to accent a point, his brash laughter trailing after it. Tristan winced. "How long will this take?"

Quinn raised an eyebrow. "My word, are you allergic to being near other people?"

"I take a dislike to the unnecessary noise they make." He unfurled his fist and instead reached up to rub at the edge of his ear, wishing there was some kind of volume button that resided there. His other hand tapped a rhythm on the table. "How long?"

They shrugged. "This place is usually pretty speedy. And I wouldn't say you doing that is necessary." They jerked their eyes in reference to his drumming fingers.

He stilled them, lips pinched. Some part of him wondered why Quinn had insisted on accompanying him, why they lounged in a seat opposite, still chattering on and buying him food like he was an old friend and not someone they'd known for less than twenty-four hours. Not someone who, in their eyes, may or may not have committed murder. It unsettled him, albeit in some distant, indescribable way.

It was about time he dispelled it. He narrowed his eyes. "Did you know Seth previously?"

"I met him once." They leaned back, hands behind their head, at ease. "At one of his autograph signings. I can't say we talked much." They wrinkled their nose. "It's a shame, really. He was pretty cool as his character, but not in person."

Tristan frowned. "You complimented him more than once last night."

They laughed. "Mockery, Tristan. Sarcasm. You should try learning what those are sometime."

Sour irritation coated his tongue, and he averted his eyes to scan the café beyond. He wasn't oblivious. He knew sarcasm just fine, though he could never quite understand the point of it. If people made more of a habit of saying exactly what they meant, the world would be a simpler place to navigate.

Then again, without a few lies, his job would be much duller. He supposed he could thank people's oddities for that.

He rolled his tongue in search of another question, but then his gaze snagged on a flicker of movement visible over Quinn's shoulder and his thoughts staggered in another direction. Black curls that resembled a tightly-woven cleaning brush rustled as Otto eased himself into a seat near the door. The sleeves of his salmon shirt were rolled up to allow his warm caramel-shade skin to breathe, and to showcase those thick boxer's muscles. A dog lead wrapped his fingers, trailing downward to the crimson collar of the terrier curled at his feet.

A cold prickle crawled down Tristan's spine, like tiny teeth knocking against the vertebrae, dancing uncomfortably close to the notion of fear. Clenching his jaw, he fought to ignore it and shoved to his feet instead. His fingers combed his jacket, venturing out in search of his gun, though he knew emptiness had replaced it. Paper crinkled from his inside pocket instead. The game is now yours.

Quinn squeaked a question in his ear, voice dashing into panic as they grabbed for his arm. He flinched away, cast them a hurried "Give me a minute," and marched for the table, though the small delay had cost him already. Otto had noticed him. He shot a dark glance over his shoulder and stood again, tugging the terrier after him as he made a beeline for the door. He was, unfortunately, much bigger and quicker, and navigated the crowding chairs and people with ease, but Tristan wasn't going to give up. He barged past a couple who'd just entered the café, ignoring the indignant shout he received, and shouldered open the door a bare second after Otto.

He stepped out to block Otto's path. Otto's momentum carried him an additional step, and Tristan backpedalled to keep an arm's length of distance between them, though he refused to budge any further. The sound of the road that sliced alongside the café rumbled in his chest alongside his hastened heart.

Otto drew back, a wariness buzzing behind his gaze, his taller figure casting a noticeable shadow in the bright midday sun. His dog whimpered, straining on its lead uncomfortably close to Tristan's ankle. He shifted the foot and drew a breath. "Otto Ratliff."

"That's my name," Otto muttered, his scowl light but visible nonetheless. "Have you been following me?"

"For approximately thirty seconds, yes." Tristan tucked his hands behind his back, ordering anxiety's twitch to calm. "I'd like to talk to you."

Otto's eyes slipped to the side as if he were scanning the street opposite, though passersby were too busy with their own tasks and lives to pay them much regard. "Tristan, we really shouldn't be seen together," he ground out. "I'm supposed to be laying low."

As if eager to trample all over his warning, at that precise moment, the café's door flung open with a swishing bang and Quinn rushed over to join them, hoodie unzipped and flapping in the draught they created.

They panted. "Hi."

Otto's glance bounced between them. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Have you not thought about how suspicious this looks?"

"There's no need," Tristan said with a shrug. He gestured to their surroundings, to the people slipping past their little huddle without a care. "Since none of us have been cast any unusual glances, I can assume that our names and faces have been kept out of the local news?"

"They're keeping the whole thing under wraps, actually," Quinn piped up. "No official story about it or anything."

"People still talk," Otto argued, surveying the road again like a nervous animal. "It's not like Seth wasn't well known." His voice had dropped to a hushed, careful whisper. He took a step back.

Tristan followed him. "But why would anyone assume we had something to do with it?"

Otto's mouth opened and then closed, resignation tangling with annoyance as his nostrils flared.

"And besides," Tristan added as the silence lingered, "a painfully public spot like this would be an awful place to discuss murder. Now, do you want to go back inside or shall we talk here?"

"I vote inside," Quinn interjected, sticking up a hand. "Our food will be ready soon. Can't have murder talk without food, can we?"

Rubbing a hand over his face, Otto momentarily closed his eyes. When they opened again, he was staring blankly into the space between them, his shoulders slumped. "Fine."

He turned on his heels and trudged back inside the café with Quinn close behind him, chittering some other tangling string of words. Tristan paused just outside the door. The café's hum and the city's howl battled with one another, clashing at this indistinct barrier. He shook his head in a futile effort to clear his headache and reached into that pocket again.

Master its rules until you can play it better than they can. Yet each of the others seemed to have differing strategies, varied ways to play, and the rules remained out of reach. Constance and Kordyn were ghost and shadow, guarded, hiding. Quinn danced a chaotically choreographed act, shallow and empty-headed as it seemed. Otto mixed serious innocence with a strangely raw fear, though what he could be afraid of, Tristan was struggling to fathom.

The game is now yours. His temples throbbed. Who among them would even think to propose a game? And why would they gift it to him without explanation?

He swept a hand through his hair and beat down on the spiralled confusion. To know all the answers at once would be wrong, would steal away the challenge. Having more to uncover was the perceived thrill of it, wasn't it?

Hand retreating from the pocket, he slipped through the door and headed inside.

His surety was short-lived, draining to his shoes the moment he got within a pace of the corner table. There was a dog on his seat.

"What's his name?" Quinn was asking. They'd pulled their chair closer, and now knelt on it, intently focused on the terrier as they patted its head. Its fur was a matted chocolate brown, wispy around its pricked ears and dotted with faint, paler specs.

"Her," Otto corrected, much more at ease than he had been mere seconds ago. He might even have been smiling. "Pepper."

"She's adorable." Quinn cooed at the dog, and Tristan grimaced.

"She's very well-behaved." Otto's gaze lifted as he spoke, and he registered Tristan's presence with a jolt, the tension seeping back into his muscles as he sat up straighter. "Sorry, I'll give you your seat back."

Pepper chose that moment to bark, a forceful ruff that shredded the air considerably more than such a small thing should. Tristan couldn't prevent his flinch. He dragged his knuckles over his right ear. "If you could."

The softness of what might've been understanding crept into Otto's face, and he thankfully tugged on his dog's lead, guiding it back to sit at his feet. "Sorry," he said again, like apologies meant anything to a practical stranger. "I promise Pepper's a sweetheart, but I know it's not that easy for everyone to like dogs."

Attempted understanding, at least. Tristan said nothing, choosing to perch as lightly on his chair as possible, feet pulled back under the seat out of reach. His wrist itched. He ran a thumb over it.

Folding his arms on the table, Otto leaned forward, his hands clasped. The careful smile returned. "Listen, I don't want to make an enemy of you two. If we're going to talk, then we might as well agree that we're in this together. Innocent until proven guilty, as they say?"

An eager nod bobbed Quinn's head. Tristan frowned, nudging his glasses up. That was an interesting strategy.

Otto waited for a moment, saw he wasn't going to get a response, and then sighed. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm alright," Quinn wasted no time in saying. "Tired, but wouldn't anyone be? I don't like taking naps though." They rocked back in their chair. "Keeping busy keeps me awake enough. You?"

"Fine. Tired." He exhaled heavily. "Thought this place would clear my head, but I'm guessing not. Tristan?"

Tristan was tapping his fingers again. The motion only registered when attention turned his way, but he only slowed their pace this time, needing the simple, controllable sound to drill out the necessary words. He eyed Pepper, ensured her beady eyes were directed elsewhere, and then allowed Otto to catch his gaze. "Someone summoned you to Seth's mansion."

Another sigh sagged Otto's form. He seemed to be constantly deflating with deep, exasperated breaths, though his tone remained impressively pleasant. "I can't tell if that means you're okay or not." He offered a noncommittal shrug. "I was invited like the rest of us."

"By who?"

"A woman I don't know." He shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "Like I said before, I'm sure the police will look into all of this. It's not our business to--"

"Don't bother," Quinn chipped in, wearing a bright smile. "We've already looked into it."

Tristan shot them a look. He would get to that when he wished. "Why did you accept the invite, Otto?"

The pause that followed had a muffled drag, and it was interrupted too soon. Plates clattered as a café waiter set down his and Quinn's food. Quinn appeared to have ordered a pile of syrup-covered pancakes -- an unusual choice for lunch -- which they tucked into readily. A large tomato slice had been placed atop Tristan's cheese on toast, dripping red fluid. He nudged it to the plate's edge with the butt of his fork. There were multiple reasons he didn't often eat in cafés.

Otto exchanged a few words with the waiter. The moment she nodded and headed away, Tristan pinned the boxer with an expectant stare.

"For my brother," he said after another lilting hesitation, the statement simple and gratingly tight.

Tristan nodded, filing it away. "Raphael?"

Otto jerked. His gaze was wild with spiky, flame-like defence. "You know him?"

"I did my research." Much as Tristan disliked social media and the useless clamour which surrounded it, he'd equipped it as his tool last night, taking care to explore it just enough to pick out a few details about his four companion suspects. Quinn Fox was plastered everywhere, posts frequent and showered with likes, though all about art and trivial affairs rather than concrete information. Kordyn was conservative with her usage, though she followed a large smattering of people, Seth included. Constance was nowhere to be seen. And Otto's profile, crowded with boxing and the occasional cricket comment as it was, had interacted with one person more than any other. Raphael Ratliff, eighteen years old, nearly as invisible as Constance online but nevertheless tethered firmly to his elder brother.

Staring into his lap, Otto wound his dog lead around his hand. Under the table, Pepper whined, ducking close to his leg as if she could sense the tension that embraced him. Tristan forced his head up to keep focus on Otto. "Were you offered a gift for Raphael?"

"Stop talking about him," Otto growled. He snatched a sharp breath, evening out his voice, but it trembled still. "Please, don't bring Raphael into this, Tristan. My intention is to keep him out of trouble. Alright?"

Tristan nodded, though his mind spooled away from the notion of a promise. Promises were foolish. Even so, there was no use pushing anyone into a corner for the sake of it, not quite yet.

He tugged the conversation swiftly to another arena. From his left pocket, he extracted Kordyn's USB drive, sliding it onto the table's edge for Otto to catch a glimpse of. The hand-drawn scarlet heart gleamed brighter in the café's garish lights. "I have cause to believe that Kordyn Jha made the calls that brought each of us here, though I suspect there's more to it. I took this from her office."

"We," Quinn jabbed in from the side.

"We," Tristan clarified, battling the reluctance. "Apparently. I would like to return to my own office to look through the files stored on it. You're welcome to accompany me if you wish."

Master the rules. He couldn't learn the rules through avoidance. Who was it who had claimed keeping your enemies closer than friends as wisdom? He hoped that still applied when the words were synonyms.

Otto gaped at him. "You stole from her?"

"For a good cause." Turning his fork over in his hand, Tristan sank it into his toast. It didn't crunch the same as he would've made it at home, though he had to admit that the cheese had melted rather well. "Are you coming? I like to know in advance."

Otto's sigh drifted out through his nose this time. "I don't think I have much choice."

Chapter Wordcount: 2650

Total Wordcount: 17709

My new favourite thing about this book is Tristan's fear of dogs. He really looked into those lil bean eyes and said yes that's terrifying. Poor guy, afraid of the floof :(

- Pup