Page 89 of Skeletons in the Closet

I flicked it around and showed Diem. “Is this the same lawyer guy Sean met with?”

Diem glanced up, read the card, and tore it from my hand. “Yes. Fuck.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know.” He scrubbed a hand over his scruffy jaw, winced when he grazed the cut, then dropped it again. “We gotta get out of here. There’s nothing to find.”

We slipped from the office as voices and heavy footfall rose from the eastern stairwell at the far end of the hallway.

“Shit. This way.” Diem caught my arm again and physically moved me.

“We are having a long talk about this manhandling thing,” I hissed. “I’m serious. It’s borderline annoying.”

He loosened his grip and muttered an apology but didn’t slow down.

The door at the opposite end of the hall opened. Men’s voices grew louder. There were at least two. One of them sounded familiar, but I didn’t stop to look over my shoulder. When we reached the junction on the far west side of the building, we rounded the corner, ducking into a new hallway.

I tugged Diem to a stop, wrenching free from his hold, and held a finger to my lips. The voices were louder.

“Hang on.” I poked my head around to see who they were and caught sight of four people before they entered Shore’s office.I didn’t know two of them, but they carried heavy-looking gear and wore protective outfits I recognized all too well. The other two men were most certainly the faux FBI agents the students had mentioned seeing arrest Shore earlier that day.

“Oh boy.”

“What?” Diem asked.

“Doyle, Fox, and a forensics team just entered David’s office.”

And if that was the case, Shore was definitely being investigated for homicide.

20

Tallus

“But how did they know about his connection to Beth?” I asked as we hustled down a different stairwell and exited the building.

“We’re missing something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

We got in the Jeep and hit the road. I didn’t ask where we were going, figuring I’d find out when we arrived. We ended up at Diem’s, which was good since I’d left my car there the other day and had not been looking forward to the Uber expense to retrieve it.

Inside, Diem rummaged around his desk—it was no tidier than Shore’s—and found an iPad. He unearthed a pack of Nicorette and helped himself to two pieces before heading to the room next door.

I followed.

“Still get cravings, huh?”

He grunted.

Diem aimed for the fridge. “Drink?”

“No thanks. Bad idea. I don’t want to irritate my head. It’s in a fragile state right now.”

He paused as though only then remembering I’d been bedridden with a migraine for two days. He didn’t quite look me in the eye, but he tried. “How is it? Your head? Are you… okay? Shit. I should have… I can take you home.”

“I’m fine. It’s much better, but alcohol can aggravate it, and I’m less than a day recovered, so…”

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