Matheus opened the door to his new, private room and found it less private than he had expected.
“What did Heaven say about Milo?” Alistair asked. He lounged on his sleeping bag, his pants folded neatly and laid on top of his sneakers. He held a paperback open in one hand, the single lantern illuminating the lurid red font splashed across the cover.
Frowning at him, Matheus closed the door. The air smelled musty, streaks of mold still clinging to the damp walls. Six inches separated the sleeping bags; the size of the room didn’t allow for more space.
“What are you doing?” asked Matheus.
“Reading a terrible book,” said Alistair. “I’m only on chapter three, and I’ve already figured out who the killer is.” He paused, looking wistfully down at the pages. “I wish people would stop trying to be clever in mystery novels. It always makes everything so obvious.”
“I meant,” said Matheus. “What are you doing in here?”