Page 127 of Skeletons in the Closet

Doyle aimed to leave, but I called after him. “Wait. What about Beth? And the fire?”

“We’re still working on that. We have the Guterson kid’s dad in custody again. The man has fourteen years of anger inside him. His son’s death sent his life spiraling out of control.”

“So you think it was him?”

“Like I said, we’re working on it.”

Then Doyle was gone, the door falling shut with a bang.

I took a second to absorb what he’d told me before grabbing my phone and connecting a call to Diem. When his voicemail picked up, I worried Doyle was right and Diem was screening his calls. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to me either. Of course he didn’t. Fuck me. That wasn’t going to fly. I could be super annoying if I wanted to be.

I had ten minutes left until I could lock up for the night. I tried to reach him two more times with no better luck. At five thirty, I headed out the door, figuring I’d pop over to his office and deliver the message face-to-face.

28

Diem

The red rubber ball had been abused over the past two days to the point I worried I might break the damn thing and spill sand—or whatever it contained—everywhere.

Giving up the case was killing me. Tallus didn’t see it. He’d taken it as a personal affront, but I couldn’t wait around for him to get hurt again. Not on my watch, and the risks mounted the more we learned. Someone was paying close attention to everyone involved in the Roan Guterson murder. Someone wasn’t satisfied and was seeking revenge.

For whatever reason, Noah had taken the coward’s way out. Beth was dead under suspicious circumstances. Natalia had almost been poisoned. Olivia and her family had barely escaped their house being burned down.

What next?

How long until our nose-poking drew unwanted attention?

Had Tallus not been tagging along, I might have risked it and kept looking for answers—despite Doyle and Fox’s protests. Mywelfare was my problem. But Tallus was glued to my hip, and stopping the investigation was the only way to ensure he stayed out of danger.

I talked to Doyle the previous day about Olivia’s house, strongly suggesting he bring her in for questioning. The cocky homicide detective didn’t like being told what to do, but I knew, in the end, he would listen. It was better this way. Let them figure shit out.

After I chatted with Doyle, I called Faye to arrange a meeting at the office. She’d refused to come on a Sunday, claiming she was busy. She insisted on seeing me later Monday afternoon. She was back at work but informed me she could swing by around five. I let her assume I had information about the case. I did, technically, just not the information she was expecting. The woman was convinced her husband had been unfaithful and wanted the names of his lovers on a list, but she wasn’t getting any. His crimes were something else altogether.

Hopefully, my discoveries would help change her attitude about Noah so she could mourn him properly as the faithful husband he was, murder notwithstanding. I wasn’t going to be the one to reveal he was likely involved in a 2010 hit-and-run. The detectives could have that privilege.

At quarter to five, my phone rang, and Doyle’s name flashed across the screen. I let it go to voicemail, knowing Faye would be there any minute. I didn’t have time for a chat. Besides, I’d given him everything. What more did he want?

I squeezed the rubber ball and eyed the pack of cigarettes I still hadn’t trashed. More than half of it was gone, smoked away over the past two days thanks to my weak will. Tallus had crawled inside my veins and was poisoning me. I couldn’t shake him from my system. At times, I wasn’t sure I wanted to and wished I had the words to express myself. But I didn’t.

I longed to be another man, one who could do normal things like date sexy clerks from the records department. Like cuddle in bed and kiss without feeling ten kinds of awkward.

But forming bonds with people was a recipe for disaster.

I’d tried once and failed, swearing I’d never go there again.

Dismissing Tallus and the case was for the best. Cut him loose. Clean break. Let him go. Don’t look back.

I would think twice before enlisting his help again. It had been a dumb decision, and the repercussions would likely haunt me for months.

He could go back to his routine. Forget about me. Join his friend Memphis at Gasoline and dance with guys his own age who didn’t have a metric ton of bullshit preventing them from being a normal person.

Down the line, some lucky schmuck would snag him and keep him.

But that guy wouldn’t be me.

A knock sounded at the door. My phone display read four fifty-six. Faye. I tucked the ball and cigarettes into a drawer and called out, “Come in.”

Faye appeared to have come straight from the office. What did she do for a living? I couldn’t remember. It was likely in my folder of information. It didn’t matter. Regardless, she looked less like the grief-stricken wife I’d met a few weeks back, who wore frumpy clothes and dark circles under her eyes. That afternoon, Faye wore slacks, heels, and a nice blouse. It complimented her full figure, accenting her best features. She carried a bulky leather purse over her shoulder. Her makeup gave her once sallow cheeks some color, and her eyes were brighter, shimmering with a spark of new life.

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