MARTIN

When the doorbell rang, Martin thought it was Charlotte and Luca. Forgot their keys? That wasn’t like Charlotte. He had so much to tell. But first he would have to listen, as much as he might not care to hear it. He assumed the trip had gone well. If it hadn’t, one of them would have called. Maybe they changed their minds and didn’t go. Maybe they’d taken off, driven north, up the Pacific Coast, or down to Mexico.

Maybe.

When he opened the door he was disappointed. It wasn’t them. It was another bike messenger—the second package delivered that morning. The first was a cardboard box addressed to Charlotte. No return address. This package was also anonymous, wrapped in plain brown paper. It was tied with soft white string and addressed to him. When the messenger dropped his clipboard and bent over to retrieve it, Martin found himself thinking, nice ass, and liked the feelings his weekend with Javier had awakened in him. Not that he was interested in the young man with the bleached blond mohawk, but there was no harm in looking. Martin took his time signing for the package and tipped the messenger a five.

He struggled with the knot until it gave way. Inside the wrapper was a book. Martin felt sick when he read the title: Poisonous Fungi of New York. It was the 1894 first edition, number 20, in its original green cloth map case, illustrated with magnificent hand-tinted folding plates.