For as much as he didn’t actually want to explore the host’s kitchen, there was at least one benefit: getting out of the restless group of mostly-strangers.

It was harder now to feign interest; his utter lack of desire to listen, and help, and care about everybody else right now prevented him from his usual easy encounters.

Well, “easy.” Easier than now.

Malachi followed into the kitchen, slipping his bruised hand back into the safety of his pocket.

No knives, this time. Not there at least.

While the detective went about finding a glass, Malachi ran his fingers across the counter. Lifted them to find but a speck of dust. His head lifted as the younger passed by, glass goblet in tow (what the fuck?).

“Pardon?”

Will he miss Nettie? What kind of question was that? Malachi furrowed his brow, shooting him a suspicious look.

“She’s… like a daughter to me,” was his answer. “What are you implying?”