Page 5

5

Diem

N one of it computed. None of it made sense.

I read the story again, vaguely noting that Tallus had gone pale and quiet.

“And you found these pages inside that notebook?”

“Yes. It’s one of my son’s journaling books. He has all kinds and uses them for prewriting assignments for the newspaper. He jots research notes or ideas for future pieces inside. They contain first drafts or lists of materials he needs to look up online. You can see it’s almost full of notes and parts of articles he’s either written or wanted to write. I told you. This is what he wants to do for a living. Journalism is his passion.”

“But this”—I waved the printed pages—“is fiction.”

Delaney motioned to her listless son. “Is it? He’s not dead yet, Mr. Krause, but he’s as close as one can get.”

I stared from the story to the boy in the hospital bed. “So… you’re saying he wrote about this… incident before it happened?”

Delaney made a face that suggested I was stupid. “No. That’s absurd.”

“Then what the fuck are you saying?”

“D.” Tallus touched my arm. “Take it down a notch.”

I ground my teeth and filled my lungs, exhaling slowly, reminding myself the woman was rich and willing to pay for two days of cooperation. Visions of my eviction calmed my temper.

“My son didn’t write that.” Delaney nodded at the printed pages. “He couldn’t have. Obviously. He’s not a savant.”

Tallus removed the papers from my hand and the notebook from Delaney’s, opening the latter to a random page. He scrutinized the two side by side. “The handwriting is the same.”

Tsk ing with irritation, Delaney tore the printed story from Tallus’s grasp. “This, in the margins, is his handwriting, yes. He clearly did the editing, but the story itself isn’t his. He didn’t write this garbage.”

“I don’t get it.” Tallus glanced at me, seemingly looking for an explanation, but my lack of sleep was catching up, and I was equally confused but didn’t want to admit it.

I reclaimed the printed story and studied it closely. It illustrated the short tale of an unnamed protagonist who went for a stroll through the woods one afternoon with an unidentified companion. Their conversation seemed unimportant. They talked about school. About projects, assignments, and exams. They chatted about their reading preferences. While following a trail along an unspecified river, the boys stopped and argued about a novel they’d both read. Each teen interpreted the story differently. The fight escalated. In a fit of rage, the unidentified companion shoved the unnamed protagonist toward the edge of a steep embankment that overlooked the river. The protagonist stumbled and tried to save himself but inevitably fell. The protagonist was sucked under by the strong current. It dragged him downriver and out of sight. The unidentified companion waited to see if the protagonist would reemerge, but when he didn’t, the companion assumed he had died and left the scene of the crime.

She was right. It was all there in black-and-white. Except the protagonist hadn’t died. Not yet. Weston might have had one foot out the door, but he was still alive. Who was the companion? How could Weston have written about his own attempted murder before it happened? It didn’t make sense.

I shook the pages at Delaney. “Who wrote this, if not your son?”

“I don’t know.” She took it back and frowned at the first page. “Weston’s writing is… stylistically different. More mature, if you will.”

“But the editing notes are his.” Tallus pointed out again.

“Yes.”

“And it was in his possession?” I added.

“In his bedroom, wedged inside the notebook. Yes.”

I rolled the information around my head, and although what she proposed didn’t make much sense, I landed on the next logical question.

“Did you show this to the police?”

Delaney’s shoulders slumped. “Yes.” Her tone expressed defeat.

“And?” The word came out on a growl. She clearly wasn’t telling us something. If this was as big a red flag as she made it seem, the police would have been all over it, and Tallus and I wouldn’t be standing there.

Delaney frowned and paged through the story with the unnamed characters before setting them aside. She glanced at her son as though seeking answers she didn’t have. In that moment, I saw a woman uncertain of her claim.

“Delaney.” Tallus’s tone was soft and encouraging. “Did the police dismiss the story?”

“Yes.”

“How come?”

“Two reasons.” She reclaimed the notebook and turned a few pages until she found what she was looking for. She held it out, and I snagged it before Tallus could.

“Weston was doing research for a series he was planning for the newspaper. ‘Winter Perils,’ he was going to call it. Things high school students should be aware of. As you can see, some of the notes detailed specific articles he wanted to cover. Frostbite, snowmobile safety, controlling a spin on black ice when driving. Also, river safety with a section on hypothermia and what to do if you fall through ice. He lists survival tips. How to get yourself out if it happens. The teacher who runs the school newspaper corroborated this information when the police interviewed him.”

I skimmed the pages where Weston had indeed compiled a long list of notes on the various subjects he planned to cover. He referenced websites, books, podcasts, and documentaries from where he’d gathered his notes.

“The police said Weston was likely out at the river doing research for his upcoming piece, especially since he had a meeting that day at the school. His teacher said he liked to include photographs, so the police assumed he might have been taking pictures of the violent water for effect. They didn’t recover his phone, so we have no way of knowing. I agree, Weston was factual and liked to get in the thick of the problem to assess all angles, and I know he was meticulous about taking pictures to accompany pieces.”

“But it doesn’t explain the story,” Tallus said.

“No.” Delaney sighed. “Which brings us to reason number two. The teacher who runs the newspaper shared that Weston had recently joined the fiction writer’s club at school too. They’re called the Whodunnits? and focus primarily on mystery writing. So, the police figure another explanation could be that since Weston was interested in winter safety, specifically surrounding the river, he wrote a short story about a misadventure with a friend that revolved around the topic. They say he likely went to the river to work out details or plot points. Reconstructing it, if you will. Either way, they called the story an ‘unfortunate coincidence that parallels his accident.’ They said there is no evidence to the contrary. No proof of foul play. No unexplained injuries. No sign of a fight or a second person being present. They have absolutely nothing to investigate. Case closed.”

It was a lot of convoluted thinking on both sides. I understood the police’s stance on the matter, but the exactness of the story was unnerving. Did their theory make sense? I supposed, in a way, but it was about as far-fetched as Delaney’s.

“ Could he have written that story?” I gestured to where Delaney had discarded the pages on the table.

The distraught mother shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible. I suppose everything they said is possible. My son is thorough. He could have gone out there to take pictures for his article. He could have written a short story based on a topic he was intimately acquainted with. But like I said before, it doesn’t fit his voice. The writing style is far too immature for Weston. I’ve seen his work.”

“Can I play devil’s advocate?” Tallus asked. “If Weston was used to writing nonfiction, his venture into fiction could explain why it seems underdeveloped. He’s new to the writing club. His imagination isn’t like the other students, so he picks a topic he’s been studying lately for familiarity and ease. He’s also used to writing factually, so his creative juices don’t flow the same. Therefore, the story has an immature voice you aren’t used to.”

Tallus hit the nail on the head, and Delaney couldn’t argue the assessment. For a long time, the only sound was the sucking and beeping of Weston’s machines as they kept him alive.

“None of it explains his unusual mood leading up to this. His… evasiveness.” Delaney turned to me. “You promised me two days, Mr. Krause. Come to the house. Go through Weston’s room. Get to know my son and who he is—was—before you dismiss my theory. Maybe you’re right. Maybe the police are right, but what if I’m right. What if someone did this to him? Before I say goodbye to my son, I want no more doubt in my mind. Please help me get there or help me find the truth.”