Page 113 of Skeletons in the Closet

I rolled the information around my head as Tallus stared at the detectives, shock radiating from behind his broken glasses.

Natalia had mentioned Roan’s father harassing people on campus. She’d been fearful the previous day when we’d approached her. The man sounded unhinged, but Natalia hadn’t killed his son. Why take it out on her when the real killer was behind bars? Hell, as far as I could tell, Natalia and David weren’t even involved in 2010 when the accident happened.

“Talk, Krause. I’m not fucking around anymore,” Doyle said. “I’ll bring you in for obstructing justice if I have to.”

“You mentioned Shore hasn’t posted bail yet?” I asked instead.

“No, but it’ll happen in the morning.”

“So he’s in jail right now.”

“Yes. Can we—”

“The blood,” Tallus said. “Was it a match?”

Doyle narrowed his eyes. “How do you know about that?”

Tallus flushed.

“Thought we were sharing,” I said, diverting Doyle’s attention.

“We are, but it’s awfully one-sided at the moment.”

“Answer Tallus’s question, and I’ll talk.”

Fox and Doyle exchanged a look, then Fox said, “Not a match.”

The pieces didn’t fit, but they wanted to. I was missing something. Despite my oath to steer clear of the department, I fulfilled my end of the bargain.

I explained Faye’s request that I look into her dead husband’s adulterous behavior. I shared how the investigation had led us to Olivia, then to Beth, and finally to the elusive bastard, aka David Shore. I told them about the hotel room rendezvous the night before Beth had died. About the argument we’d witnessed between Beth and her husband—in case it was relevant. About how we suspected the three of them had knowledge of David’s crime from 2010 and went into a panic when the police started investigating him for other things, particularly, we believed, when they took his car—although I hadn’t aligned those dates yet.

I told Doyle and Fox our suspicions that David might have been indirectly responsible for Noah’s death and directly responsible for Beth’s.

The two detectives listened, took notes, and asked a few questions.

When I finished the story, they asked me to go over it again, so I did. By the time I’d reviewed details a third time, Tallus was looking worse for wear, and my temper was wearing thin.

“Are we fucking finished yet? How many times do I have to say the same thing?”

The two detectives conferred and nodded. “We’re done,” Doyle said.

They left, but not without warning me to stay close to the phone in case they had more questions. After they departed, I stared at the empty doorway, thinking about what we’d discovered, unable to shake the feeling that I was missing something crucial.

“D?”

I refocused and glanced at Tallus. The bruising was getting worse by the minute. He sported a decent pair of black eyes, the bridge of his nose swollen.

“Yeah?”

“I’m hungry.”

“When can you leave?”

“I don’t know. The doctor didn’t say.”

“I’ll find out.” But when I stood, ready to storm the nurses’ station, Tallus wrapped his fine-boned fingers around my wrist and stopped me.

That time, he did draw me closer. I went only so far, reluctant and unable to close the distance like he wanted me to. He shuffled upright on the hospital bed and removed his hand from my wrist to touch my clean-shaven face, smoothing a hand over the cheek containing the worst of my scars. “Don’t get snappy out there. These people are just doing their job. When I have attitude, it works because I’m cute. When you have an attitude, people call the cops, and I don’t want them back here.”

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