Page 12

12

Tallus

A n overcast sky pressed down on the town as I chased Diem across the semi-salted parking lot to the Jeep. My loafers weren’t doing me any favors, and I almost fell twice on black ice.

“Am I missing something? Why are we leaving?”

“We aren’t.”

“Um, we’re running out of the building toward your vehicle, and I didn’t see a fire. This is the definition of leaving.”

“It’s not.”

“Guns—Whoa!”

Diem spun in the nick of time and caught my arm before I landed on my ass. I wrapped myself protectively around him, heart knocking.

“That was close.” Before he could open his mouth and reprimand me, I pressed a hand over it. “Nope. Don’t admonish me. These shoes are the epitome of fashion. I have few joys in life, and let’s be honest. The more times I try to fall on my ass, the more excuses you have to touch me… You don’t need an excuse, by the way. You can touch me wherever and whenever you’d like. Except in church. That might not go over well. Not that church is likely to happen, but…” I grinned sheepishly. “So, thanks for the save.”

Diem narrowed his eyes, but a reserved hint of humor shone from within. “You’re hopeless.”

“You don’t hate it as much as you pretend.”

He righted me on my feet.

“But still, why are we leaving?”

“I said we’re not.” Diem manhandled me toward the Jeep and ensured I landed safely inside without maiming myself. He got in the driver’s door and put the vehicle in accessory mode, cranking the heat and aiming the vents in my direction.

Then he stared at the diner without saying another word.

“D? You’re doing that not communicating thing again. I thought we were trying to get an idea of who wrote that story.”

“We are.”

“It’s going to be a lot tougher if we don’t… I don’t know… talk to people.” I dramatically motioned to the diner.

He continued to stare.

“D?”

“Think about it. If our theory is that someone else wrote the story and used it as a fucked-up instruction manual or threat before trying to kill Weston, then logic states it was someone from the writing club, right?”

“Yes. Hence, one of those teens might recognize the writing and be able to—”

“Or one of those kids is the author and culprit.”

“Oooh. Touché.”

“What do you think will happen if we shove the only proof we have in their faces and tell them we know Weston didn’t write it and the author is suspected of murder?”

I blanched. “I… never thought of that.”

“Exactly.” Diem scratched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “And something doesn’t sit right with me. Did you read the room when Londyn called their little club a Murder Club?”

“Yes. Jesus. What the hell was that?”

“A slip of the tongue… and not the good kind.”

I smirked. “Guuuns. Did you make a joke? I’m not used to you trying to be funny. It’s kinda cute.”

“Shut up.” But he was almost smiling.

“I saw their reactions, but it made sense on the surface, so I brushed it off. You know, the Whodunnits? The Murder Club. They like to write murder mysteries. Maybe the teacher wouldn’t let them call it something too sinister, so it’s a name they use behind his back.”

“No. They’re hiding something. There was a lot of sketchy behavior happening at that table, and not one of those kids looked sad about their friend who’s basically dead.”

“Be nice.”

“Do you have a kinder word for ‘basically dead’ because I was going to say he’s a vegetable, but I knew you’d crucify me for it. I was exercising tact.”

“I’m proud of you. That’s twice I’ve observed you telling people to fuck off without coming out and saying it. I think you’re turning over a new leaf.”

I stared at the diner, absorbing what Diem suggested. He was right. The confrontation with the teens had been unusual, and I’d been too goal-oriented to see it. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We go at them individually, starting with the punk-ass kid with the shaggy hair and bad attitude.”

Atlas. He was the only one in the group who hadn’t said much. Therefore, I’d barely paid him attention. “Wouldn’t we be better off talking to Chett? He’s supposedly Weston’s best friend.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s trying too hard to fit in and won’t want to rock the boat.”

“How do you know that?”

“Observation.”

I went through the reel of our encounter with the teen but couldn’t pinpoint what Diem meant. Was I that unobservant?

“We could talk to Londyn. She seemed…”

“Dumber than a pile of bricks?”

“Annd there goes tact, flying out the window. Bye-bye, tact.”

“Nursery Rhyme will be target number two after Map Boy, but I have a feeling our mini Pompous Prime Minister shelters his sister, and I know for a fact we aren’t going to get shit out of him.”

“I love how you give everyone cute nicknames. Do you have one for me that you use with your frien… dly therapist?”

Diem side-eyed me, features deadpan. “No.”

“Really? Nothing?”

“No.”

“Roses has potential.”

He glared harder.

“I have two special nicknames for you. Guns, because, hello.” I squeezed his bicep. “Look at these bad boys. They are deadly weapons. And I call you cuddle bear. To be fair, that was Kitty’s nickname for you first, but I stole it. It’s fitting. I’m going to brainstorm a few for me. I can’t be plain old Tallus because that’s boring. I still say Roses has a nice ring to it. Maybe I could be—”

Diem sprung forward, shushing me and nodding out the windshield.

The teens exited the diner, gathered for a moment to chat, then dispersed. The twins, Duke, and Noel all got into a newer model SUV, Loyal and Noel in the front, Duke and Londyn in the back.

Chett took off walking down the road, nose buried in his cell phone.

Alone, Atlas pulled a pack of cigarettes from his backpack, lit up, and trudged—all teens trudged—toward a rusted Civic. He tossed his bag in the back seat and was about to get in when he caught sight of us sitting in the Jeep.

Chuckling, the teen shook his head but didn’t get in the vehicle.

Diem shut off the accessory mode and shouldered his way out the door. I scrambled after him, but the second my shoe hit the asphalt and skidded out from under me, I slowed down, glad Diem hadn’t noticed.

These damn shoes had zero traction.

Diem sauntered toward Atlas, who smoked and sized up my brick wall of a boyfriend. If the teen was intimidated, he didn’t show it. Diem stopped a few feet away and hitched his chin in a nonverbal greeting.

Atlas hitched his chin back, taking another drag and squinting as he exhaled a cloud of smoke in Diem’s direction. “I knew we hadn’t seen the last of you. Weston’s mother is a bit squirrely, and she isn’t going to let it rest, is she? Got herself convinced her boy was targeted.”

“You think she’s wrong?” Diem’s voice rang low and caustic in the cold morning air.

Atlas shrugged. “How should I know?”

“You looked awfully smug in there. Got something you wanna tell me?”

Atlas studied Diem as he took another haul. “Depends.”

Diem and Atlas entered a staring contest, each as stubborn as the other. I wondered how badly Diem was craving a cigarette with the fumes in his face. He’d quit for the hundredth time six weeks ago, but I’d seen the empty packs of Nicorette in the garbage pail at the office. I’d seen him murdering the stress ball I’d given him. I’d seen his bruised knuckles from long sessions punching a bag at the gym. He coped the only way he knew how.

Without taking his eyes off Atlas, Diem dangled the keys to the Jeep in my direction and spoke. “Glove compartment. Zip pouch.”

I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but I retreated to the Jeep and searched for the pouch. Under a stack of service receipts, I located it. Inside, I found a short stack of bills, all twenties. A quick tally showed a hundred and sixty dollars.

I chuckled. “Bribe money. Why am I not surprised.” Unfortunately, with the rising cost of living and the decrease of work, the price of bribes had gone down.

Knowing he wouldn’t want more than a single bill, I plucked one from the pouch, zipped it, and shoved it back under the service papers. I was about to close the door when a stack of familiar envelopes caught my attention. I pulled them out. Bills. Hydro, phone, and water. Every one of them was stamped with a Past Due warning on the front.

“Shit.” I knew money was tight. I knew the business was struggling, but Diem hadn’t told me it was this bad. A thread of worry pulled tight in my gut. When he said he needed this job, he wasn’t kidding. I tucked the envelopes back under the pouch and locked the compartment.

Carefully, I made my way back to Diem—who was still in a stare-off with Atlas—and tucked the cash in his palm.

Diem held it up, pinched between two fingers. “Last chance to cooperate. I don’t get what I want from you, this offer goes to someone else.”

“And you think twenty bucks is an incentive?”

“To someone it might be.”

Atlas seemed to consider, sucking on the end of his smoke before flicking away the butt when he exhaled. “Talk.”

“The Murder Club. What is it?”

Atlas smirked. “I think that question was already answered.”

“I think it wasn’t. I think that cover-up was bullshit. I think there’s more to tell.”

Atlas glanced around the parking lot and down the road before facing Diem again and shrugging. “It’s a writing club.”

“It’s not a fucking writing club. Do I look like a goddamn fool?” Diem stepped forward, encroaching on the teen’s space, oozing hostility.

I cleared my throat. “D, there’s not enough money in the envelope for me to bail you out of jail if you get arrested for assault.”

Diem’s nostrils flared, but he stood his ground.

A smirk bloomed on Atlas’s face. The kid was asking to be pummeled. “It’s a writing club,” he repeated with more emphasis.

Before Diem could spit and snarl, I touched his arm. “Can you explain what you mean?”

Chin high, Atlas held Diem’s unflinching gaze. “It’s an after-hours extension of the Whodunnits? A little grittier, a little livelier, and a lot more secretive. Exclusive invitation only.”

I glanced from Atlas to my boyfriend, whose threatening features morphed into confusion. I recognized the shift into processing mode.

“Can you elaborate?” I asked.

“We’re a group of students who wanted to take their writing to the next level but were bound by childish high school regulations, so we branched off on our own.”

“What next level?” Diem asked, seeming somewhat recovered.

“Mr. Abercrombie runs the school club. He allows anyone to participate, no matter what genre they write. It’s a lot more popular with the mystery thriller crowd, hence the name, but it’s all… regulated. He won’t teach the darker aspects of the genre and doesn’t promote us exploring it in our writing.”

“Keep talking in code, and I’ll pocket my twenty bucks and drive away.”

To me, Atlas said, “Your partner’s a real treat.”

“Buddy, you have no idea. How about you answer his questions more thoroughly because, at this point, if he tries to rip your head from your shoulders, there isn’t much a scrawny guy like me can do about it. At best, I can jump on his back and try to put him in a choke hold, but chances are I’ll slip in these shoes and embarrass myself. In the end, you’ll be dead, my pride will be hurt, and we’ll move on to someone else who will give us information.”

Atlas thumbed in my direction but spoke to Diem. “Is he for real?”

Diem growled and balled his fists.

“Oh, I’m for real, buddy, and I’d say you have thirty seconds before he snaps.”

Atlas chuckled and shook his head. “You guys are fucking weird.”

“Talk,” Diem spat.

“Do you read mysteries or thrillers?” Atlas asked.

“No.” Diem’s jaw pulsed with how hard he clenched his teeth.

“I read fashion magazines.”

Atlas huffed. “Not what I’m talking about. Every murder mystery involves a bad guy whose goal is to get away with a crime and a good guy who’s trying to catch him. The problem with most books in this genre is how unbelievable the author makes the story. They rely too heavily on the bad guy being an idiot or the good guy being a genius. Our goal is to make the stories as real as possible. To do that, we fully examine and dissect the criminal aspect as a group. We put ourselves in the role of the antagonist. We want to create a flawless crime that can’t be pinned on us. We brainstorm every aspect. We act it out. We challenge each other. We analyze anatomy, murder weapons, process, discuss evidence, alibis, and determine the potential for suspicion. Every flaw is fixed until we have the perfect crime. Only then do you have a true masterpiece of a story.” Atlas made a chef’s kiss motion.

Frowning, glancing between the teen and Diem, I said, “But, isn’t the point of a mystery novel for the good guy to solve the crime? You can’t write a story where the bad guy gets away with it. That makes no sense.”

Atlas chuckled. “That’s stage two. Once we have the perfect crime, we take the role of protagonist and find a way to solve it.”

“Your method is circular. At this rate, you’ll never have a story.”

Atlas shrugged. “It’s the process we love, and our stories surpass most of the trade pieces of shit out there. We use our heads. We truly think about every part.”

Diem drew a folded stack of papers from the inside pocket of his jacket. I recognized them as the ones he’d plucked from my hand earlier. Weston’s mysterious story depicting the incident by the river.

He handed it to Atlas. “Is this from your club?”

Atlas spent a second skimming the content and nodded with a huff of humor. “Yep. This one went around for a bit.”

“Who wrote it?”

Atlas thrust the papers back at Diem. “Couldn’t tell you.”

“Who. Wrote. It.” Diem spat each word with venom.

“I. Don’t. Know.” Atlas mimicked Diem’s manner of speech. “All stories in the Murder Club are anonymous. They are typed, not handwritten. Times New Roman. Font size twelve. They are put into a folder at the beginning of a meeting. We shuffle them and select one at random. After reading it aloud, we vote on its quality and if it’s worth working on. From there, if selected, it goes through many stages. This one was from a month or so ago. Everyone got a copy. Everyone did edits and made notes.” He indicated Weston’s scribbled comments in the margins.

“Who do you think wrote it?” Diem asked.

Atlas shrugged, his smug expression never faltering. “The point is anonymity. I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

“Buddy,” I interjected before Diem could insert an opinion. “Someone took this story from fiction to nonfiction. I don’t believe for one second that your friend had an accident.”

The kid’s smirk made my skin crawl. “I don’t believe so either, but I don’t know who wrote it.”

“I’m not sure it matters,” Diem grumbled under his breath.

“D?”

“If they all had a hand in creating this nonsense, it could have been any of them who decided to see if it would work, act it out, or whatever.” He stared long and hard at the teen. “Who all’s in your Murder Club. How many members?”

“I’m sorry, Oh Captain, my captain. I can’t share that information. It’s against the rules.”

Diem’s nostrils flared.

“Who’s in charge of your so-called group? Clearly you don’t have a teacher overseeing you.”

Atlas pff ed. “They would never go along with what we do.”

“No. They wouldn’t,” I said. “So who came up with this club idea? Who runs it? Who makes the rules? Who decides who can join and who can’t?”

“Come on, man. Wasn’t it obvious?” Atlas motioned to the diner.

Diem answered before I could wager a guess. “Loyal.” He flicked the twenty at Atlas and snagged my arm, escorting me back to the Jeep.