Page 9 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

It wasn’t a great night.

I mean, it was hard not to take Eric’s parting shot personally, although in a weird way, it had felt directed at Bobby as much as at me. And on top of that, the fact that Bobby’s dad wouldn’t say anything—like, nothing —was increasingly oppressive. Not that Bobby said much either.

In fact, after Eric left, we sat there, with the malty scent of the tea and the occasional click from the refrigerator followed by the sound of running water, in a kitchen that was too well-lit for the hour and the moment.

Checking the time on my phone seemed like the ultimate rudeness, and holding Bobby’s hand felt like it would bring down the wrath of God.

So, I sat there, and from time to time, when I couldn’t help myself any longer, I brushed my knuckles against his knee to let him know I was there.

Eventually, Bobby told his dad, “I’m going to get Dash settled.”

Mr. Mai nodded.

As we left the kitchen, I heard him behind us, pouring his tea into the sink.

Bobby carried our bags down the spiral staircase. The basement was completely finished, with a beautiful walkout that had tall windows. Night pressed up against the glass, and dull little amber nubs of suburban light were the only thing out in the big black.

His childhood bedroom had been stripped down to a bed with a white comforter, a dresser that I could tell, just by looking at it, was empty; a lamp with a dusty jute shade; and plastic storage bins stacked along one wall.

The closet door was open, and inside, it was full of clothes in dry cleaner bags that clearly weren’t Bobby’s.

No photos of Bobby. No posters on the wall, no jerseys or trophies, not even a rock collection.

The bathroom down the hall was equally impersonal.

No cute soaps. No seashells or air plants or “nice” towels, the kind you knew you weren’t supposed to actually use.

Before long, we were in bed together. It seemed too small, and although Bobby was the major cuddler in our relationship, now I had the sense that I was the one infringing on his space.

I tried to lie normally, to remember what it felt like to be in bed without…

this. Bobby’s breathing was soft and even against the empty backdrop of the darkness.

I didn’t want this to be the way we went to sleep, not tonight. It took me a few minutes to work up the courage. This was Bobby, I reminded myself. This is the man you love. He’s hurt. He’s hurting really badly, as a matter of fact.

I found him in the dark and laid my hand on his stomach.

It rose and fell with his breathing. His bare skin was warm.

I wanted to say, You don’t have to be this person, not with me.

I wanted to say, You don’t have to fight it so hard.

But I didn’t; the silence in the house was like an infection, and it had gotten into me, too, somehow.

I moved my hand in small circles, and the soft friction of skin on skin warmed my palm.

His hand swallowed mine, stilling me.

And then he rolled onto his side, his back to me, and I listened to his breathing until something like sleep took me.

Movement woke me sometime later. I lay with my eyes closed for another moment.

The sun was up and warm on my face. My brain rebooted, details from the night before filtering in.

It probably wasn’t that bad, I told myself.

You were tired. Emotions were high. Everything seems worse in the dark.

He’s still processing everything. And of course your first meeting with his dad and brother didn’t go great—they’re grieving.

Just get through today. You both just need to get through today.

A hand on my leg made me open my eyes. Bobby sat on the edge of the bed.

He had already showered and dressed, and the faint perfume of unfamiliar soap was jarring—a kind of cheap, drugstore floral that wasn’t my Bobby.

His hair was combed, but not combed , if you know what I mean.

In a fresh set of hoodie and joggers, he looked about as close to a bad boy wild child as my Bobby could get.

The only change was that at some point in the night, he’d bitten his lip hard enough to split the skin; it was freshly scabbed, and I was immediately certain of two things: first, it must have hurt like the dickens; and second, in absolutely no way was I permitted to bring it up.

Squinting against the day’s unrelenting brightness, I tried not to and then asked anyway—through a yawn, no less—“What time is it?”

“Nine,” he said. “I know you’re still tired, but I think we should get moving.”

Normally, I was a big believer that nothing good happens before eleven and nothing great happens before noon. Nine o’clock, in my opinion, was for the birds. But then the rest of what Bobby had said penetrated, and I asked, “Get moving? Oh God. Is your dad waiting for us?”

Bobby shook his head.

Again, I couldn’t help the “Thank God” that escaped me.

I sat up, groped for my glasses, and squinted through them at this more rebellious Bobby—who, I now noticed, hadn’t shaved.

Not that he grew much facial hair, and not that I minded (since a scruffy Bobby is a decidedly rakish and handsome Bobby). But still.

“Right,” I said. “What do we need to do? Do you know if your dad already found a funeral home—oh wait, I bet there’s a checklist online.”

“Not that. Indira.” He gave my leg a little shake and stood. “We’ll get breakfast on the way.”

I tried to follow, but I was tangled in blankets. “Wait a minute—what do you mean, Indira?” I kicked one leg free. “Bobby, there’s a lot to—” An overly optimistic hop finally got me free of the bedding. “There’s a lot to do. Your family needs you right now.”

“Eric’s taking care of most of it.” Bobby crouched to fold his clothes—his dirty clothes, because of course he would fold them.

He tucked them under his duffel, and just like that, the room was pristine again (if you didn’t count my pile of dirty clothes and the fact that it looked like someone had wrestled an alligator in the bed).

Bobby had even found time, apparently, to clean the grime from the alley off his shoes and mine.

“I’ve only got a few things to handle, and I can do them on the phone. ”

“Right, but—”

“She’s not under arrest, by the way. The sheriff let her go home last night.”

“Okay.” I tugged on the shoulder of my sleep shirt to adjust it. “But shouldn’t you be with your family?”

Bobby’s back stiffened. He stood. “Indira’s still a suspect in a murder investigation.”

“I know.”

“I thought you wanted to help her.”

“I do, but—”

“I’m on leave from the sheriff’s office. Bereavement; the sheriff didn’t really give me a choice.” Before I could follow up on that, he said, “I might as well do something productive.”

“Bobby,” I said. But then I stopped.

The silence went on until he said, “What?”

My heart was beating too fast. I swallowed and said, “Just let me get ready.”

The drive back to Hastings Rock was quiet. Bobby stopped long enough to pick up coffee and breakfast sandwiches. I asked him, half an hour later, if he was going to eat his, and he said he wasn’t hungry. And that was all the talking we did.

When we got to Hemlock House, the sky was ultrabright behind it, and it made the old building look like something cut out of a magazine.

Gulls wheeled in flickers of gray and white.

When Bobby stopped the Pilot and I opened my door, the faint screech of their calls floated in with the crash of the wave and the faint brininess of the ocean.

I had to remind myself I’d been gone less than twenty-four hours.

Bobby turned toward the coach house, but as I followed him, the front door flew open, and Millie rushed out.

“NALINI DID IT!” She stopped to gulp air. “Nalini did it! She KILLED that man!”

“Hi, Millie. Nice to see you too.”

“What do you mean?” Bobby asked. “Why would she—”

Millie’s face changed, and she squeezed Bobby in a hug. “Oh my God, Bobby, I’m so sorry about your mom.”

For a moment, his face was like ice about to melt—the way the color and texture change. He stood awkwardly for a moment as she continued to hug him, and then one hand came up, and he stroked her hair. “It’s okay, Millie. Thank you. What’s this about Nalini?”

“I have PROOF!” Millie said as she stepped back and pulled out her phone. “She didn’t come home last night, and she kept texting Keme to ask if Indira WAS BACK YET.”

The outrage—and volume—of those last words suggested they were somehow the proof in question, so I said, “That’s it?”

“Dash, she DIDN’T COME HOME. You know what that means, right?”

“I know what it means in, like, a rated-R sense, or like one of those HBO movies you can only watch after your parents have gone to bed, but—”

“IT MEANS SHE WAS DESTROYING THE EVIDENCE!”

“That seems like a stretch.”

Millie’s stare suggested new levels of disbelief for my stupidity, but she rallied. “Look, I took pictures of the messages. ‘Is my auntie back yet?’ ‘Just checking if she’s home.’ ‘Do you know when she’s supposed to be back?’”

“Right, okay—”

“If she was really worried about Indira, why wasn’t she at the sheriff’s station? Or if she didn’t want to do that, why not come home and wait here? Why would she keep texting unless WHATEVER SHE WAS DOING WAS A SECRET SHE DIDN’T WANT INDIRA TO KNOW ABOUT?”

This ear-shattering conclusion wasn’t as airtight in my opinion as Millie’s, uh, gusto seemed to imply.

But Bobby was the one who said, “Did Keme ask where she was?”

“No,” Millie said. And then, with a look that seemed to take in both of us, she added crisply, “He’s a boy.”

“But why would she want to kill Mal?” I asked. “She was working for him. She seemed to like him.” Although like was a bit of an understatement, with all the giggling and touching I’d seen.

“Because something HAPPENED,” Millie said with obvious frustration at my lack of gusto. “Something we don’t know about.”

“I don’t know—” I began.