Page 30 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

Fox’s friend’s cabin was south of Hemlock House. I followed the state highway for a while and then cut inland on an aging two-lane that eventually petered out. After that, the Malibu had to rough it up a winding dirt drive.

The cabin itself was perched on a hill, nestled among a stand of lodgepole pine.

Because this was one of Fox’s friends, it was a genuine log cabin, the wood gray and worn from decades of exposure.

It looked to be of the two-room variety, with a little brick chimney leaking a tail of smoke and a wood-shingle roof.

You can pretty much sum up the whole experience by saying the roof had sprouted—it was like a miniature rain forest up there.

When I knocked, Keme opened the door an inch. His expression was grim, and he planted himself in the narrow gap.

“Are you going to let me in?” I asked. “Or do I have to fight you?”

For some reason, he relaxed. He even smiled, just a little.

Boys are the absolute weirdest.

Straight boys in particular.

I’d been right about the two-room floor plan.

The front room took up most of the cabin’s interior.

There was an exceptionally lumpy-looking bed on one side of the room, with wool blankets that somehow managed to look both like they were falling apart and like they’d be incredibly itchy.

A table and chairs filled the rest of the space.

A colorful rug lay in front of the hearth, and a fire burned on the grate, making the little cabin smell like wood smoke.

The decorations on the walls were what you’d expect from one of Fox’s friends: a dreamcatcher, a watercolor of a princess with the head of a trout, a little triptych of a shirtless Cary Grant.

Indira sat at the table. She was dressed in her usual fashionably sensible attire: ankle boots, leggings, a white sweater, a simple gold necklace.

Millie sat next to her, holding one of Indira’s hands and glaring at me.

Fox had pulled one of the chairs next to the fireplace.

Today, they were dressed—I could only assume—as Captain Nemo from Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea : a navy coat, black trousers, black boots, and so many brass buttons.

There was also a dash of James Bond villain in there; they were wearing one monocle and had another poking out of their pocket.

When they were sure I was watching, they flicked their switchblade open, and a comb popped out.

“All right,” I said. “This is all very impressive. You all love Indira. I’m the bad guy. I get it. If I do anything to hurt her, you’ll kill me. I get the message.”

“Do you?” Fox asked.

“Everybody out. Right now. I need to talk to Indira.”

Nobody moved.

“You’re all accomplices at this point,” I said. “Keme, Millie, do you want to have a prison wedding? Fox can brew you some toilet wine.”

“OH MY GOD! A PRISON WEDDING!”

(That wasn’t the response I’d been expecting.)

Keme tried to kick me in the back of the knee.

(That was closer.)

Fox lifted their chin and said haughtily, “It would be a toilet brandy.”

“Everybody out!” I snapped.

Indira squeezed Millie’s hand. “Go on. Thank you all for trying to help.”

Fox rose stiffly to their feet—I got the sense that the boots were giving them blisters, and the weight of all those brass buttons must have added up.

Millie gave me her most dangerously warning look, which she ruined by hugging me (one of those extra-hard Millie hugs, so that you know she means it).

Keme took another swipe at my knee, but when he missed, he lingered near the door.

“It’s all right, Keme,” Indira said gently.

Keme glared at me.

“Dummy,” I said. “Give me a little credit.”

He rolled his eyes. But after a moment, with a last look to check Indira’s expression, he slunk out of the cabin.

The fire crackled and popped.

I drew out one of the chairs. Indira’s gaze followed me, but she didn’t speak.

Neither did I. The cabin was warm, and the smell of the wood smoke was surprisingly sweet.

When the wind picked up, it sounded like a river running around the cabin, and above us, when the pines swayed, it had something of the ocean in it.

“I’m sorry, Dash.”

I nodded.

The wind died, and the silence felt longer this time.

When Indira spoke again, her voice was clotted with emotion. “My God, what am I doing?”

“What are you doing?”

She shook her head. She folded her hands on the table. She was looking through me, past me. And finally she said, “Being a fool. I think I’m being a fool.”

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not particularly.” She gathered herself, and her eyes focused on me, as though seeing me again. “I’ve made a mistake. And I’ve put you in a bad position; I’m sorry about that, Dash. Why don’t you call the sheriff and let her know where I am?”

It was classic Indira: responsible, thoughtful, and somehow…

closed. Whatever moment of vulnerability I’d felt, it had passed, and the wall was back.

And while most of the time I respected that wall, respected her right to privacy, right then it was something of an inconvenience—primarily because it meant she was going to take the fall for a murder she didn’t commit, and in doing so, let the real killer walk away.

And worse, no amount of cajoling, pleading, begging, or even reasoning would change her mind about this.

Once Indira had decided something, it stayed decided.

One time, she’d decided one of Keme’s ratty old hoodies was going to be recycled.

Keme, of course, had refused in his silent, feral-wolf-boy way.

And Indira had said, I’m not having this conversation again; give me the hoodie .

And he’d given it to her.

Right then.

When he’d been wearing it.

On the other hand—and I was slightly ashamed of this knowledge—Indira was also a soft touch when it came to things like, well, taking care of people. And right then, I needed more than the classic, closed-off Indira response. I needed the truth. Which meant I needed to get her talking.

I tried not to overdo it when I said, “I don’t think anybody could put me in a worse position right now, actually.

Bobby’s furious with me. We’re not talking right now, as a matter of fact, which is funny since the argument started because he wanted to talk to me.

Not ha-ha funny, but, you know, tragically painful.

That kind of funny. So, you know what? I think I’ll just stay here with you.

If the sheriff finds us, great. Maybe that’s what will bring me and Bobby back together.

I think he’d find it very soothing to slap a pair of cuffs on me. ”

Indira forgot some of the lady-in-black melodrama and asked, “What happened?”

So, I told her. I meant to keep it, well—is entertaining the right word when you’re using the catastrophe of your romantic life as emotional leverage?

If nothing else, I meant to keep it engaging.

But instead, of course, it all came pouring out of me.

The days of silence from Bobby. His complete and total withdrawal.

His family, and the toxic silence that they all seemed determined to dwell in.

And then that phone call with West and everything building up to that horrible argument in Hemlock House.

“I ran away,” I said. My face was hot. My eyes stung.

I stared at the triptych of shirtless Cary Grant; it didn’t help that he looked miserable too.

“Again. I ran away again, Indira, and I’m so—so mad at myself.

Because here I was. I thought I’d made all this progress.

I was trying so hard to be a good boyfriend.

And you know what? It turns out I’m not a good boyfriend.

If I were a good boyfriend, Bobby would have talked to me, not to West. And I haven’t made any progress.

I still don’t know anything about relationships.

I’m still no good at them. Here I am, almost two years after I left Hugo, and I’m still doing the same stuff, messing everything up, and running away when it gets hard. ”

Indira was silent for a long time. The wind picked up, and the rafters groaned, and the wind chased its tail down the chimney and made the fire gutter and spit.

Then she held out her hand.

After a few seconds of pure teenage petulance, I took it. And then, as my throat closed up, I mumbled, “I am not going to cry in front of these weird Cary Grant boudoir photos. I have enough psychosexual dreams about Charade as it is, thank you very much.”

Indira, because she’s Indira, said, “Mm-hmm.”

And then I did start to cry.

I got myself under control pretty quickly. And, weirdly enough, I did feel better—part of that, I’m sure, was because I’d finally been able to put some of it into words, and part of it was because crying actually does help sometimes.

“Dash, he’s not angry at you,” Indira said.

I shook my head. I’d finally managed to look away from Cary, and now I watched the fire.

“Grief—” Indira stopped herself. Then she began again.

“Grief is terrible, Dash. It’s so dark, and it’s so deep, and when you’re in it, it’s like there’s nothing else.

You don’t know where you are. You don’t know up from down.

You are terribly, terribly alone, and no one can help you, no one can come to you, no one can make it any better. ”

The flames danced.

“Yeah,” I said thickly. “I know.”

Indira squeezed my hand. “Bobby loves you.”