Page 7

7

Tallus

W e pulled into the Mandels’ driveway at three. The house was in an older, wealthier part of Port Hope. No new-builds in the neighborhood, but every homestead was easily worth a few million dollars, even dated. The Mandels seemed to have done recent renovations, and they stood out. Set back on a large property, the three-story monstrosity boasted clean siding, freshly painted trim, new windows, and shingles that didn’t look like they had seen a single winter thus far. The fresh lumber on the oversized wraparound porch told me it had likely been built this past summer, too. The three-car attached garage seemed to be the only exterior feature that was original.

The path leading from the driveway to the porch consisted of interlocking stones. Garden boxes featuring dormant perennials lined the passageway on either side. His and hers SUVs occupied the driveway, and although I couldn’t accurately tag when they were manufactured, I guessed neither was more than two or three years old. Why they weren’t parked in the garage was a mystery.

Giant deciduous trees hung bare branches over the house and stretched spindly arms to the gray sky overhead.

Bouncing on my toes, I tucked my shoulders near my ears as we looked around. The wind cut painfully across my cheeks.

“You need a warmer coat,” Diem said as we wandered the path to the house.

“I’m not cold.”

“You’re shivering.”

“Pure nervous energy. I promise. Cross my heart.”

“Your lips are blue.”

“It was all that kissing back at the B&B. It’s a form of blue balls. They’re presently aching to do more… like suck your cock.”

Diem’s deadpan expression was spoiled by the twitch in the corner of his lips.

“I saw that. Why are you against smiling, Guns?”

“Why are you against dressing for the weather?”

“You show me a winter coat that doesn’t sacrifice fashion, and I’ll buy it.”

I wouldn’t. My days usually consisted of traveling from my warm apartment to my heated vehicle into a sweltering hot office. I didn’t spend enough time outdoors to warrant the expense of a winter coat. That shit was beyond my budget.

“You could at least wear a hat.”

I guffawed. “And ruin my hair? You’re not wearing a hat.”

“My lips aren’t blue.”

“And that makes my cock very sad.”

Diem grumbled under his breath. The poor guy always stumbled to keep up with my wit.

At the front door, I rang the bell as Diem sized up the property, avoiding eye contact and any more comments about the temperature and my unsuitable clothing choices. I could tell our brief exchange back at the B&B was still ripe on his mind. Diem floundered through intimate exchanges, always needing his hand held. I sensed he wasn’t done berating himself for his stumbling effort when he should have been congratulating himself for taking a step forward without prompting.

Diem was his own worst enemy, and he needed to get out of his own way if we were ever going to get past this obstacle of showing affection.

No matter how much reassurance I provided, a tiny voice in the back of Diem’s head persistently told him he wasn’t good enough.

The door opened a moment later, revealing a scowling man in business attire. He took one look at us and swore under his breath. “Goddammit. I told that fucking woman to let this go. Delaney,” he shouted into the house. To us, he said, “You’re wasting your time.”

Diem went on the defense in response to the man’s irritable tone, standing taller and puffing out his chest, so I stepped forward, hand extended. “Tallus Domingo from Shadowy Solutions. You must be…” I stalled, not snagging on a name. “Weston’s father?”

“Yeah, but you’ve been misguided by my wife. She’s grieving and not thinking straight. Thank you for offering your services, but they won’t be needed. Gentlemen, kindly see yourselves out. Have a nice day.”

But as the man was about to shut the door, Delaney appeared from a far hallway and raced toward him, grabbing his shoulder and tugging him out of the way. “Irvin, stop. I invited them over. You have no right.”

“Laney, we talked about this,” Irvin said through gritted teeth, his tone carefully controlled. “Please don’t do this.”

Delaney looked fresh from a shower, damp hair hanging freshly brushed over a clean white blouse. Wet spots bloomed on the fabric, leaving the material transparent enough her bra straps showed. She wore no makeup. Grief strained her eyes, making her features drawn and sad.

“You can believe what you want, but I’m not giving up until I have answers.”

“We have answers. The police—” Irvin stopped and glanced in our direction before taking his wife roughly by the arm and steering her into an adjacent room. His hushed words traveled regardless. “The police investigated. They listened to you.”

“They didn’t.”

“Sweetheart, it was an accident. You have to accept that and move on. Please. For Weston’s sake.”

“I can’t. Something isn’t right, and you know it.”

“Laney—”

“No. These gentlemen are going to help me find out the truth.”

“Why does it matter? It won’t change anything.”

“Why does it matter? Are you serious? It matters because someone killed my son.”

“He’s not—”

“He is, and I can’t… I can’t properly let him go until whoever did this is put behind bars and justice is served.”

“Sweetie, it was an accident.”

“It wasn’t!”

“Shush. Good god, woman. Keep your voice down. You’re making it into something it isn’t. Can’t we—”

“I’m not making it into anything. Facts are facts. If you don’t want to see the truth, fine, but I’m… Ouch! Let go of me.”

“Honey—”

“Let go of me, Irvin.” The hysterical tone of Delaney’s voice spiked my adrenaline.

Silence bloomed in the other room, and I glanced at Diem, whose nostrils flared. At some point, he’d clenched his fists.

“What do we do?” I whispered.

Diem moved to enter the house as Delaney reappeared in the hallway, cheeks flushed as she rubbed her wrist.

Irvin followed a few steps behind, looking as angry as before, arms crossed and jaw set. “This is ridiculous. A waste of time and money.”

“Ignore my husband. We have differing opinions where our son is concerned. Please, come in. I’ll show you to Weston’s bedroom.”

“They are not stepping foot in my son’s room.” I feared the hostility in Irvin’s tone might trigger Diem’s defensiveness. I’d seen him reactive when it came to unhinged husbands. I didn’t know if Irvin fit that category, but I didn’t get a good vibe.

Delaney, however, wasn’t fazed by her husband’s ire. “They are going upstairs, Irvin. If you don’t like it, find something to do with yourself. If you want to accept that our son had an accident, so be it, but you aren’t stopping me or this investigation. It’s my money paying for their services, not yours.”

Irvin held Delaney’s gaze a long moment before shifting it to me and then to Diem. I didn’t know what kind of face my surly boyfriend wore since he stood behind me, but it seemed to subdue Irvin’s temper. Six and a half feet of solid muscle tended to have an effect.

The man backed down, and Delaney ushered us into the house.

Weston’s room was located on the second floor. It had the air of a teenager but one dedicated more to education than rebellion. A neatly arranged desk sat in the corner under a poster of the periodic table.

“He hates chemistry,” Delaney said when she noticed me studying it. “He was tired of constantly looking that chart up in a textbook, so he found a poster and hung it.”

“I was never a fan of chemistry either.”

A shelf with several resource books and various textbooks occupied a spot beside the double bed. The rest of the wall space was decorated with framed articles from popular magazines and newspaper clippings. Many seemed to feature a specific journalist I’d never heard of. An idol, perhaps? On closer inspection, I noticed one of the recurring names was Irvin Mandel, his father.

A stack of outdoor and travel magazines piled in the corner caught my attention, and I was about to open the closet when Diem asked, “Does he have a laptop?”

“Yes, it’s…” Delaney frowned at the desk, spun once as she scanned the room, and moved to the doorway, shouting, “Irvin? Where’s West’s laptop.”

“I put it away.”

“These gentlemen need it.”

“No. It’s bad enough they’re going through his room. Leave some of the poor boy’s dignity intact. The police already looked at it.”

“Irvin.” She excused herself and marched out of the room toward the stairs. Her stomping footsteps as she descended said exactly how she felt about his indignant attitude.

Another argument between the couple drifted toward us a moment later, and Diem and I shared a look. Eventually, Delaney returned with a battered Dell decorated with peeling band stickers.

“So sorry. Here.” She handed the computer to Diem. “I believe the police disabled the passwords already.”

“No phone, right?”

“No. It wasn’t recovered. The police figure it was lost in the river.”

Diem set the laptop on the desk and pulled out a chair. “Did you bring that notebook and the short story home from the hospital?”

“Yes. They’re downstairs. I’ll get them.”

The instant Delaney was gone, I turned to Diem. “Her husband is a dick.”

Diem chewed on a thought before shrugging. “It’s somewhat justified. She’s the one inventing wild theories and hoarding her son’s organs until she gets answers. Even the police dismissed her. She can’t seem to accept her son’s death was an accident.”

“He’s not dead.”

“He’s not alive either.”

“True, but you’re being insensitive, especially when you call it organ hoarding.”

Diem didn’t respond.

“What’s the game plan, Guns?”

“We look at shit and try to get an idea of who this kid was.”

“Is.”

Diem didn’t correct himself, and I chose not to argue the point. Even Weston’s mother vacillated between past and present tense when discussing her son. For all intents and purposes, the kid had died in the river, and we’d been hired to prove it was murder and not an accident.

Delaney returned with the notebook and short story.

Diem accepted them with grumbled thanks.

“Is there anything else I can get you? Coffee? Tea? A soft drink?”

“You can give us space to work and not hover. If we have questions, we’ll find you.” Diem’s tone was as harsh as Irvin’s, but the woman didn’t argue and left us alone.

“You should be nice to the grieving mother.”

“No.”

“She’s paying the rent, D. Compassion goes a long way in job retention.”

He grumble-nodded something resembling agreement and booted up the laptop. It was the best I was going to get out of him.

The password screen popped up, and Diem cursed, punching the power button again to turn the machine off.

“I thought Delaney said the police disabled that. Would they have put it back on?” I asked.

“No, but an angry father who doesn’t want us here might have.”

“You can bypass it, right?”

He didn’t answer, but of course he could. I watched as Diem rebooted the computer in safe mode and did something behind the scenes. It was a lot of gibberish I didn’t understand.

“Will you teach me how to do that someday?”

“When you finish your course.”

I wrinkled my nose at the thought. “Will you teach me to pick locks, too?”

“When you finish your course.”

“You know, I could just as easily go on YouTube and learn it myself.”

“Or you could finish your fucking course so you weren’t lying to everyone’s face every time you told them you were a junior investigator.”

“I’ve done most of it.”

“Do the rest.”

“I hate school.”

“Then you will never have fancy credentials to flash around, and I won’t put your name on the sign.”

“I really want fancy credentials. It makes me feel like James Bond.”

“Tallus, do something productive so we can get the fuck out of here. If we can prove this theory is nothing more than the wishful thinking of a grieving mother, maybe we can go home tonight, and I can sleep in my own goddamn bed and not in the B&B from hell.”

“Yes, god forbid you share a bed with me.”

His heavy sigh hit my ears as I scanned the room, instantly regretting my petulance. Sometimes, I had the patience of Job. Other times, I wanted to shake Diem until he saw reason.

Unsure I saw the point of rooting through Weston’s belongings, but not wanting to be idle, I sat on the teen’s bed and started with the bedside table. Inside, I discovered a stack of notebooks similar to the one Delaney had presented at the hospital. The variegated shades of gray and brown told me they were likely different colors in a spectrum I couldn’t see.

I pulled them out and sat them on my knee, checking in with Diem before seeing what they were all about. His focus on the hard drive was absolute, so I bent to the task of digging into Weston’s life.

Each notebook was dated in permanent marker on the front. A start date and an end date. Each covered a stretch of about six weeks to three months per book, and they went back over two years. I thumbed through them, noting they were filled with what I assumed was Weston’s handwriting.

I started with the oldest, skimming its contents more closely and reading sections to get a feel for what they contained. It comprised substance on par with what Delaney had described when talking about her son’s passion for journalism. He’d listed topic ideas for the school newspaper, compiled reference notes, and had written rough drafts of articles he had either hoped to submit or had polished and submitted at some point. A few doodles and random comments in the margins did not pertain to school but fit the ideal of a teenager.

I set the first notebook aside and picked up the second. As I moved forward in time, the content matured and became more organized. It was clear the teen took this part of his education seriously. Weston had performed interviews with agencies, organizations, and civilians in town, including a crossing guard near the elementary school who worried about the speed limit and the safety of children. A store owner who griped about the slow demise of independent businesses because everyone shopped online nowadays. A gentleman who complained that the city council and local police had repeatedly dismissed concerns about a troubling neighbor.

Weston had investigated town news and wrote reports reflecting his findings. He’d compiled questionnaires and listed debate topics. But everything I came across was news-related. Nonfiction.

Halfway through the third book, I discovered a list of universities where Weston wanted to apply. A second column showed jobs in the big wide world where he might work when he graduated. More interview notes, a few random comments that seemed disjointed, and a list of websites.

Nothing struck me as unusual. He was a kid working hard to make his dream come true.

“Can I see that notebook?” The one Delaney had shown us in the hospital sat on the desk beside Diem.

He handed it off, along with the short story the mother had found wedged inside. The date on the cover marked the notebook as current, and the blank pages at the back confirmed Weston had yet to fill it. After a minute of skimming, reading partial articles, and taking in the full effect of the content, I closed it and frowned.

I read the short story again and sighed. “She’s right.”

“What?”

“Delaney. The tone of this short story doesn’t match Weston’s other writing. I don’t think it’s his.”

Diem didn’t respond. He seemed engrossed in something on the computer.

The editing notes in the margin were definitely Weston’s handwriting, but I couldn’t make sense of the story itself. It didn’t fit. If he didn’t write it, then who did? Why was it in his possession? And was the eerie depiction of the incident by the river a coincidence?

Not making heads or tails of anything, I glanced at Diem. “Anything on the laptop?”

At first, he didn’t respond.

“D?”

With an inarticulate grunt, he motioned for me to join him. I left the short story and notebooks on the bed and moved to the desk, hovering over Diem’s shoulder. On the screen was what appeared to be another short story.

I skimmed the first few paragraphs, determining quickly it was meant to be a murder mystery. I read more. It was condensed and moved too fast, even for a short story. The perspective and story arc were weak, but I immediately noted how the writing matched Weston’s style better.

I leaned over Diem and scrolled to the next page, then the next, taking in the full five-page draft. It wasn’t much, but it had a beginning, middle, and end. And it was definitely fiction.

“There’s a bunch of them.” Diem closed the document and brought up a file where a few more were listed, all with quirky murder mystery titles. “Honestly, it makes Delaney’s theory harder to swallow. Here’s proof the kid wrote short story murder mysteries, and they’re all shitty like the one she shared with us.”

“But they’re not the same quality of shitty.”

“They are.”

“Hang on.” I swiveled Diem and the desk chair around and planted myself on his lap without asking.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Getting cozy.” Diem’s body was only slightly less rigid than the chair, but I ignored his obvious discomfort and opened another story, reading several pages before closing it and diving into a third.

“They’re not the same,” I reiterated.

“Can you… Tallus… Why are you… Will you just… Please.”

“Get comfortable with the uncomfortable, D.”

“But you’re—”

“Sitting on your lap.”

“Tallus.” The waver in his voice made me smile. The poor man couldn’t think when I invaded his space.

Taking pity, I moved from his lap and spun him to face me. The wariness in his eyes remained.

“Weston didn’t write about his accident or attempted murder or whatever we’re calling it. Someone else did.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Delaney’s right. Weston’s author voice shines in these pieces.” I tapped the laptop screen. “But that one.” I motioned to the bed and the printed short. “It’s vastly different. Someone else wrote it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No. I don’t buy it. He wrote a ton of shitty stories for this writing club thing he joined.”

“No, he wrote these shitty stories for the writing club.” Again, I gestured to the computer. “That one on the bed is someone else’s pile of crap.”

“I’m going to contradict you and back it up with evidence.”

“What evidence?”

“The kid was a researcher at heart, right? That’s what his mother said. The police even used it to explain why he might have been in the woods by the river. Look.” Diem took command of the mouse pad and closed the document I’d left open. He located a different file and opened it. Inside were several subfiles. He scanned, selected one, and opened it too. Dozens of photographs appeared on the screen. Diem clicked the first one, blowing it up.

A forested landscape.

He clicked the arrow at the side, bringing us to the next image.

A river.

Click.

A footpath with ice patches and mucky bootprints.

Click.

A steep embankment showing a rushing river below.

A chill raced up my spine. “What the fuck?”

“Research.”

“But… For his attempted murder?”

“No. For his short story.”

“But he didn’t write it, D. I’m telling you. It’s not the same, and if it was his, wouldn’t it be in the file on his computer with the others?”

Diem worked his jaw, staring into the middle distance for a while before reopening the folder containing the short stories and running his finger along the list of titles. Ours didn’t have a title, but it didn’t matter. None of them matched.

“See?”

Diem chewed his thoughts, and I stayed quiet. Emerging from deep inside his head, he scanned the room, zeroing in on a printer located on a far shelf. He shuffled forward on the desk chair, closed the open files, and searched the bowels of the laptop.

“What are you looking for?”

But he didn’t answer. Diem was on a mission.

I silently watched as he opened the system control panel for the printer. After poking around and doing stuff I didn’t understand, he collapsed back, making the chair creak as he scrubbed a hand over his bristly jaw.

“What?”

“I can’t find evidence he printed that story.”

“Because it’s not his.”

“Well, if he didn’t write it—”

“Then someone did, and isn’t it suspicious that Weston suffered an accident that is nearly an exact replica of what was written? And if he didn’t write it, then he wasn’t out there researching it, and—”

“But he was. The pictures prove it.”

“No, D. The pictures were taken and uploaded to his computer, meaning he returned from that excursion unharmed. Why would he go out there twice? Delaney’s right. That story is a red flag.”

“But…”

“Someone killed him.”

Diem opened his mouth to respond or object but closed it again, a dip forming between his brows.

“You know I’m right.”

“It’s suspicious. I’m not ready to say he was murdered.”

I moved to the bed to retrieve the short story, wanting to prove to myself once more that the writing was different, but I paused at the sight of the notebook, a thought surfacing. “D? If Weston planned to attend his newspaper meeting after seeing his girlfriend at the library, why didn’t he have his notebook with him? Why would he leave it at home?”

Diem didn’t have an answer for that either.