He shook his head, and he licked a flake from the edge of his lips. “No, there’s a formula.”
I raised an eyebrow. “A formula?”
“Of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “One simply takes the order of character introductions, multiplies it by the number of available weapons in the setting, then subtracts anyone who has an alibi in the first five pages. Next, you divide by the strength of each character’s motive—adjusted for dramatic irony—and apply a weighted average to account for narrative red herrings. Then, naturally, you remove the butler, because it’s never the butler, despite what unimaginative readers think. If the story is set in England, you must also discount vicars, whereas in American novels you discount stepchildren. Once all that’s done, the solution presents itself with absolute clarity, all by page ten.”
I laughed so hard I almost choked on my croissant. “That’s not a formula, Brooks. That’s… lunacy with fractions.”
He sniffed. “Lunacy that works.”
“You know what else might sound like lunacy?” I asked, leaning forward with a twinkle in my eye.
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
My face lit up with mischief. “Camping.”
BROOKS
I froze. “Camping?”
“Yes. Camping. I wanna go camping in these beautiful woods… and I think you should come with me.”
“Camping!” I repeated.
“Yes!” he repeated.
I blinked in horror and said again, “Camping?”
“Are we stuck in a time loop or something? Yes. Camping. You, me, the woods. A little tent, a fire, a sky full of stars. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun? Are youinsane? Why on earth would I deliberately choose to sleep outside when I own a perfectly good bed here… indoors… with sheets and pillows and running water?”
He grinned. “Because it’s an adventure.”
“Adventure?” I snorted. “Adventure is finding a misshelved copy ofWar and Peacewedged in between cookbooks and restoring it to its rightful place. Adventure is discovering the town library accidentally filedMoby-Dickunder Fishing Guides and returning it to Literature where it belongs. Adventure is not—” I waved my half-eaten croissant violently. “Deliberately bedding down in the dirt.”
Cody laughed so loud he coughed out a flake of pastry that landed on my shirt. I promptly brushed it off as he asked, “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“The worst?” I started counting on my fingers. “Mosquitoes. Bears. Serial killers. Tents that collapse in the night. The inevitable moment I need to use the bathroom only to discover the ‘bathroom’ is a shrub. Sleeping bags are basically coffins with zippers, and don’t even get me started on the lack of basic essentials like electricity and chamomile tea. Not to mention we just survived a flash flood! I have no intention of doing that twice in my lifetime, let alone twice in the same week!”
By now, Cody’s crumbs had spilled all over the counter. I couldn’t take it a minute longer. I snatched up my broom and began sweeping furiously.
Cody leaned even closer, unbothered. “Am I right to assumed you’ve never camped before?”
“Of course not,” I huffed. “I’ve spent my whole life avoiding such nonsense. I need lumbar support. I need cotton sheets. I need—” I jabbed the broom for emphasis. “Walls!”
He shrugged. “Then this’ll be your first time.”
I spluttered. “I don’t think so. I don’t have the equipment, I don’t have the expertise, and I certainly don’t have the inclination.”
“Relax. I’ll bring the gear, I’ll pitch the tent, I’ll even build the fire. All you’ve gotta do is show up. Well, and maybe try not to scream every time a cricket chirps.”
I swept harder, muttering, “I don’t scream, thank you very much.”
“You practically squealed when I tickled you.”
“That was not a squeal. That was sheer shock.”
He grinned, finishing off the last of his croissant and licking his fingers. “So that’s a yes, then.”
