In Strange Woods - Claire Cray Page 0,76

unexpected examination of his well-being as he walked her outside. “Just don’t be surprised if he comes banging on your door tonight. Guy’s like a bat outta hell.”

“Well, he’s a Woodstock,” Deenie said simply as she got into her truck. “I’d be surprised if he was any different.”

Chapter 29: In Dreams

Until now, Hunter hadn’t considered looking James up on the internet. But Deenie had left him in a sore, contemplative mood. More specifically, she’d planted a seed in his head—or maybe watered a seed that was already there—anyway, it got him thinking about how he’d been handling this whole thing with James. Questioning his whole perspective.

Deenie’s take on it was comically simple. If James seemed like the type of person Hunter wanted to be with, then Hunter should do everything he could to grab him and hold on.

Hunter’s take, if he had to describe it, was that James definitely fucking was the type of person he wanted to be with—but since he was only passing through, there was no point getting his hopes up. Better to just enjoy it while it lasted.

Now as he sat at his desk, too distracted to work, he wondered what the hell made Deenie think he could have anything he wanted—even a happily-ever-after with James. Where had she come up with that, and why was she so surprised that he didn't agree with her?

Frankly, it had never even occurred to him to think that big.

Was there a chance of him and James being something real? Anything was possible, wasn’t it? So why hadn’t he allowed himself to consider it?

Why was it so hard, actually, to try?

With an aggrieved sigh, Hunter leaned forward and opened his web browser to search. Halfway through typing James’s name, a list of suggestions dropped down from the search box.

james worthington crane murder

james worthington crane net worth

james worthington crane inheritance

james worthington crane fake alibi

james worthington crane model

james worthington crane photography

Seeing this evidence of notoriety, Hunter felt a deep pang of sympathy for James and a smaller pang of guilt just for looking him up. But, then…well, he just needed to know more. Needed a chance to get a good look at James without being dazzled to stupidity by his presence.

Hunter hit search on just the name, and immediately frowned at the page of results.

On the right was a surreal sample platter of thumbnail photos: a younger, shirtless James striking a sultry pose in a black-and-white fashion ad; a candid shot of James holding a camera in some kind of prairie, his mouth open in a half-smile as he looked at something out of frame; a paparazzi photo of James walking out of a brick building, frail and bereft in a black hoodie and sunglasses, his mouth clamped in a thin, miserable frown; a shot of James grinning in an art gallery, his arm wrapped around a woman who, based on the resemblance, had to be Grace.

At the top of the results were three recent news stories:

Townhouse Murder Suspect Falls To His Death After Standoff With Victims’ Son

Case Closed? Townhouse Whodunnit Ends In Bizarre Twist…On The Oregon Trail!

Isaac Lang To Helm ‘Deconstructed Documentary’ On Townhouse Murders

Grimacing, he revised his search to james worthington crane photography.

A minute later, he was staring in fascination at a photo of three children playing in the snow on a sunny day. Two were crouched on either side of a pile they were forming. One was running off in the distance, arms spread out like an airplane. It was a simple scene, but there was something about it that held Hunter’s attention. Something about the angle of the camera, or the light. He could practically hear the children chattering. Feel the snow under his feet. Taste the cold in the air.

They were all like this. Every picture. Knowing nothing about photography, he couldn’t begin to guess why the photos were so moving. James didn’t seem to focus his lens on anything interesting. Two men talking near a tractor. A waitress wiping a table. A stand of trees near a concrete apartment building. The people and places in his pictures seemed common, even mundane, even those labeled as having been taken in exotic settings.

But in each photo, there was…something. Something intimate, immediate, almost uncomfortably familiar—like images taken out of his own memory, or his own dreams.

After looking at every photo on the website, trying and failing to figure out why they were all so affecting, Hunter could only conclude that James was a genius.

He leaned back in his creaky