Page 80 of Skeletons in the Closet

“I brought you soup,” he said, interrupting my musing.

“You brought me soup?” I smiled. “Really?”

“Nana says you’re supposed to eat soup if you’re sick. Chicken noodle. She said it has healing properties. It’s probably bogus, but… I didn’t make it. I’m not that… I researched soup restaurants, and apparently, this place is good.”

More than ten words, but they were a struggle.

“Thank you.” I wanted to tell him a migraine was not the flu, but I was afraid to hurt his feelings when he’d gone out of his way to do something nice. It felt so out of character, but in all honesty, I had no idea about the finer points of Diem Krause.

He dug a sealed take-out bowl from the paper bag and handed it over. A wooden spoon and individual cracker packets camenext, then napkins. He set the latter two aside on the coffee table.

Diem wouldn’t look me in the eye.

I opened the soup and ate some. It was lukewarm, almost cold, and I wondered how long Diem had sat outside in the Jeep, second-guessing himself.

“It’s good. Thank you.”

He grunted and stared at the ground.

I ate a few more bites, examining the dark spot on his jaw, more and more certain he’d cut himself.

“What happened?” I asked, unable to let it go.

He looked confused, so I indicated on my own jaw. “Did you cut yourself?”

Diem touched the area, retracted his fingers, and shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing. Mentioning it had caused him to tense up.

I let it go and ate a few more spoonsful of soup before setting it aside. “What’s up, D?”

He snapped his head up. “Huh?”

“Did you come by to check on me and bring me soup, or was there something else?”

Eyeing the soup, flexing and releasing his fingers, he muttered, “I… wanted to check on you.” He shifted his weight, cut his gaze around the room, and touched the cut on his jaw again. “I… There’s… You told me not to keep going without you. I found some stuff, and I thought…” He frowned. “Do you want me to go?”

“No.” I chuckled. “I want you to talk. If you’re able.”

“Oh.” Never in a million years did I think Diem would bring the case to me. I was convinced I’d be chasing him down for information, and it was part of the reason I was so pissed I’d wound up with a migraine.

“You found stuff?”

He nodded. “The man Sean met when he left the vigil is a lawyer. Bill Tudor. He works in that building where they chatted. Your pictures helped. I asked around.”

“You asked around?” I snorted.

Diem scowled. “I promised the guy at the coffee shop twenty bucks if he could identify him.”

“That’s more believable. A lawyer? Why was Sean meeting with a lawyer?”

“I don’t know.”

“What kind of lawyer?”

“Criminal defense.”

“Not divorce? Shit. Maybe the police are questioning him for Beth’s death.”

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