Page 5 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

Fox’s shocked expression melted away into smug self-satisfaction. “I brought you these cookies because Indira said she was going to throw them away.”

“Lies,” I said. “Indira doesn’t throw cookies away. She hides them in the freezer where she thinks I won’t find them—”

I stopped, but too late.

“It’s one layer after another with you,” Fox said, “isn’t it?”

“Thank you for the cookies,” Bobby said, taking the tray. “Now what do you want?”

Fox sniffed, but as usual, they let Bobby get away with it—Bobby got away with pretty much everything when it came to Fox. I had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with what Fox called Bobby’s rump .

“I was wondering—” Fox began. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble—” They drew a deep breath. “I thought you might be interested—” They broke off again, and then they said, “Oh fudge!”

(I mean, you’re an adult. You know what they said.)

“What—” I tried.

“My father wants you to figure out who swapped the script,” Fox said. “Tinny is furious; that little tart has been screaming her head off all night.”

I actually had to loop back to make sense of that statement.

Twice. And what I finally came up with was “Someone swapped the script? Wait, what?” But the last few moments of the play before intermission floated up to me: Kyson’s line about—something.

And the way he’d turned to the audience.

And then the lights had gone out. “You’re talking about Kyson.

And the lights going out. It wasn’t a malfunction! ”

“Could you try,” Fox snapped, “to keep the Encyclopedia Brown energy to a minimum?”

I shut my mouth.

Bobby, on the other hand, did nothing. Loudly.

Fox passed a hand over their face. “I’m sorry.

It’s been a long few days. Weeks, actually.

And tonight—” But they cut off again. In a stronger voice, they said, “I apologize, Dash. No, there was no malfunction. That seemed like a possibility at first; we’re using a backup lighting console—an old one.

But that wasn’t the case. Someone tampered with the program.

They set a timer for the lights to go off exactly when they did.

The young woman who was running the booth blames herself, but before you ask, she’s seventeen and is possibly the sweetest child on God’s green earth.

There’s no way she had anything to do with this. ”

“But someone planned it,” I said, “even if it wasn’t her.”

Fox nodded.

“Why?” Bobby asked.

“Interesting question,” Fox said. “The take from the box office is gone.”

“What?” I said.

“The take. The money from tonight’s ticket sales.”

“Someone stole it,” Bobby said. “How much? Did you call the sheriff?”

“Yes, we called the sheriff.”

“It can’t be that much,” I said. “Doesn’t everyone pay with credit cards nowadays?”

“In Hastings Rock?” Fox asked drily. “The retirement capital of the Oregon Coast?”

Okay, that might have been a slight exaggeration—but it wasn’t entirely wrong.

There were a lot of people who retired to the coast. And although Hastings Rock was a little touristy gem, much of the coast was still a working-class world: fishing and logging and agriculture.

For people in those industries, cash was still king.

“Do they know who did it?” I asked.

“Of course I know,” Fox said. “It was that little tart.” But they huffed and fluffed their dressing gown. “Not that I can prove it. That, my dear, is where you come into the equation.”

“Uh.”

(That’s all. That’s the sound. And it sounded a lot longer when I made it.)

“Dashiell, please,” Fox said. “This is your dream. A chance to investigate a crime. You live for this kind of thing.”

“Yeah, well, my personal preference when it comes to Betrayal!!!: The Worm Has Turned: the whatever-whatever story is the least contact possible, the better.”

“The theater is haunted,” Fox said in the tone of someone sweetening the pot.

And, okay, sure, yes—a haunted theater would be awesome. I’d probably see a ghost. And then Keme would probably see a ghost, and his hair would turn white. Or he’d do a little tinkle. Or something.

“He’s not a character on Scooby-Doo ,” Bobby said. And then he saw my face and said, “Seriously, Dash?”

“How do you know it’s haunted?” I asked.

“Every theater is haunted,” Fox said.

“Pass.”

“But The Foxworthy really is!”

Bobby had gotten to that stage where he was now folding his arms across his chest.

“Please, Dash,” Fox said. “I know it’s silly. And I know the sheriff will do her best. But my father is asking me to ask you for your help, and…” Fox trailed off miserably.

“I need to talk to Bobby about it,” I finally said.

“Thank you,” Fox said. “Thank you! You darling boy! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“I didn’t say yes!”

But Fox gave Bobby a smirk, and Bobby said, “Yeah, I know.”

“What?” I asked.

“Goodnight,” Bobby said as he shut the door behind Fox.

“What?” I asked again.

Bobby set the tray of cookies on the nightstand.

“I didn’t say yes,” I said. “I said I was going to talk to you.”

“I know,” Bobby said. He cupped my cheek. “And I love you for actually believing that.” Then he tweaked my ear and headed into the bathroom.

While Bobby got ready for bed, I stripped down to my trunks.

If I was being totally honest, I’d had certain, uh, amorous inclinations.

Toward Bobby. For a while now. And I’d kind of been hoping that tonight, we might rekindle, um, that particular spark between my loins (oh my God, this is the absolute worst; this is why I can’t write romance).

(Also, can something be between your loins?

Or is it in your loins? Under your loins?

You can never find an editor when you need one.) Because tonight had been a change.

A good change. We’d gone out. We’d gone to the theater.

It had felt like we were a couple again instead of two people rotting together in the same house.

All of which was to say: because of my amorous inclinations, I’d worn a cute pair of trunks, and they had a particularly saucy Link (from The Legend of Zelda ) on them.

For safety’s sake, I moved the cookies as far away from the bed as possible.

I couldn’t be held responsible for night-snacking, and I didn’t want any further setbacks on Project New and Improved Dash 2.

0 (or whatever I was calling it). I’d had popcorn.

I’d had a Coke. I’d had way too many M&M’s.

And nobody had even blinked twice when I’d stolen Keme’s Reese’s Pieces (which he totally deserved because he was too busy staring at Millie).

I was climbing into bed when Bobby came back. He glanced at the cookies. He looked at me. “Aren’t you going to have any?”

“I don’t want one right now.”

Bobby’s eyebrows went up.

“I had all that junk at the theater,” I said.

Bobby pulled off his shirt. The word, my friends, is chiseled . But he was still looking at me, and that little furrow was back.

“Besides,” I said, “no crumbs in bed.”

“Dash,” he said, “have a cookie.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

But my stomach chose that moment to rumble.

I decided that was a good time to end the conversation, so I grabbed my phone and set my alarm.

And then I set the alarm on the clock on the nightstand.

And then I set the third alarm on the travel clock and slid it under the mattress.

The trick was to make it impossible to reach in the morning without getting out of bed.

“You’re going running again?” Bobby asked as he climbed into bed.

“The gym,” I said.

“You went every day this week.”

“I like it,” I said. “I’m getting the hang of it.”

He ran his fingertips across my forehead, feathering along my hairline. “You need a day to recover.”

“I’ll take it easy. I’ll stretch.”

For a moment, I thought he might say something else. But then he pecked me on the lips and turned off the light, and even though he was right next to me, I thought if I reached out, I’d feel… nothing.

He loves me, I thought as sleep came in. We love each other.