Page 70 of Devious Gambit

Something had changed between us and I failed to identify the cause. He wouldn’t meet my eye when I climbed inside his spacious vehicle and he said little to me for the first hour of the journey. I was nervous about meeting my dad, so I was relying on his quirky humor and smooth story-telling voice to distract me.

I hadn’t seen him since Saturday night, however, he contacted me several times to confirm that our trip to Stillwater was still on. I wasn’t sure what I did wrong, but I’d never felt so lonely in my life.

“I’m sorry,” I confessed softly after an hour and fifteen minutes of silence past.

“What for?” he asked, his eyes straight ahead watching the road.

“Um you tell me. Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I mean…no, you did nothing wrong.” He was about to say something else and backtracked.

“Congratulations on winning another game,” I said, gazing out the window at the rolling fields of green.

“Thanks. So, what have you been up to over the last few days?” he asked, trying to make conversation.

“Just the usual. Studying, assignments, working at Stads.”

“Cool. Been seeing that guy?” he questioned with a touch of venom in his tone.

“Not romantically. We’re just friends.” I turned to gaze at his beautiful features caught by the morning sun, giving him a halo. He glanced at me for a second, and focused back on the road. The entire time his phone beeped and popped and pinged while mine sat in silence in my bag.

“Well, it looks like Greene was suffocated,” he exclaimed.

“Really?”

“Yeah, they reckon someone put a pillow over his face while he was sleeping in the hospital bed. Police came around yesterday to ask us questions. Fuck, they should set up camp outside our door. We’re already suspects for Sweeney’s disappearance and that attempted rape. They can’t make anything stick, ‘cos they’ve got no proof.”

“Have you asked any of your roommates about the rape?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “I’ve tried, but getting anything out of them is like squeezing water out of a rock.”

“They still haven’t found Sweeney’s body, so anything could’ve happened to him.”

“Exactly. We all reckon he faked his own death just to get some attention. He’s like that, a fucking narcissistic bastard. Probably turn up one day preaching some fake tale of survival and exclusively sell his story to 60 Minutes with a publishing deal.”

“I wonder how easy that is, faking one’s death?”

“Why have you thought about it?”

“I have toyed with the idea of becoming someone else.”

“Like who?

“Someone French and colorful, maybe.”

“Like a macaron?”

I chuckled, enjoying his humor and the fact the temperature between us had warmed.

“Why be someone else when you’re already perfect,” he added.

I frowned. “You think I’m perfect?”

“I see nothing you need to change.”

“Maybe my paternal genes?”

“Nah, it just makes you more interesting. Less beige more French blue.”

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