Page 95 of Skeletons in the Closet

“This is it,” Tallus said. “It has to be.”

“We don’t know for sure.”

“Oh, come on, Guns. It makes sense. And the date. 2010. That’s the same year Beth, Noah, and Olivia went to school there, and… Jesus,” Tallus said on an exhale before spinning to face me. Our knees knocked. “And now Beth and Noah are dead. That can’t be a coincidence. They knew. Shore killed them to keep them quiet.”

“Noah’s death was suicide.”

“Was it, though? Could it have been murder?”

“Pills and alcohol?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible. Where did Noah get the pills?”

I grunted.

“Plus, Beth’s death was made to look like suicide, kinda, only sloppier and less convincing, so the police saw through it.”

“You’re reaching.”

“I’m not. And I bet the only reason Olivia isn’t dead is because she surrounded herself with bodyguards. Diem, holy shit. This makes sense. Can’t you see it?”

But did it? I unpacked the information one piece at a time, fitting what we knew into the equation. When I considered the original emails we’d found on Olivia’s office computer, correspondence between her and Beth involving Noah and the elusive bastard—David—I couldn’t deny it vaguely worked.

“Motherfucker,” I muttered. “Okay, maybe.”

“Ha! See, I’m not just a pretty face.”

This had nothing to do with an affair. Noah, Beth, and Olivia had far worse skeletons in their closets. They knew David had killed someone, and they were helping to cover it up. How? Why? Had they witnessed it? Had David paid them off somehow? What was the subtext we were missing?

“We need to talk to David’s wife,” I said.

“Why? I thought you said—”

“Because women who don’t trust their husbands keep close tabs on them.Veryclose tabs. Bank accounts. Emails. Internet history. They spy. They ask questions. Look at Faye. She hired me after her husband died because she wanted confirmation that he was fucking around on her. Bitter, angry wives sometimes do better work than investigators because they can go through their husband’s things and don’t need warrants. They can get closer to the subject than anyone else.

“Doyle and Fox didn’t connect Beth to David until we opened that can of worms for them, so they wouldn’t have asked her the right questions when they interviewed her. Since it’s getting late in the day, I doubt they’ll reapproach her tonight. In fact, I know they won’t. They have him in custody. Their frantic chase is over, which means their investigation will slow down to a crawl. If we can—”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Time out, Guns. Food’s here, and I’m starving.” Tallus smirked. “But I’m impressed. I wasn’t counting, but that was a lot of words in a row. Bravo. I’ll make a talker out of you yet.”

I frowned as he rose to answer the door.

Taking a breather from the case was nice. Tallus unpacked the take-out bags—Thai, his choosing, my buck. It seemed to be a trend, and I got the feeling Tallus struggled financially more than I did.

My day had been a whirlwind, starting before the sun had risen with a phone call from Birdie. Nana’s night had been rough, and she was asking—crying—for Boone. I’d heard her in the background, and it broke my heart. Some days were worse than others, but repeatedly reliving the death of her husband took its toll.

I’d gone to settle her down, but I hadn’t managed to avoid Dad, who didn’t leave for work until nine and took it upon himself to launch his scalding coffee at my face because I dared step foot inhishouse withouthispermission to seehismother.

I’d avoided burns, and my iron jaw had stopped the mug dead in its tracks, breaking it and cutting my face in the process—not deeply, but enough it had bled off and on all day. One of those tricky, pain-in-the-ass cuts that were too shallow for stitches but didn’t want to clot.

It took two hours at the gym and a phone call to Dr. Peterson to calm down after I’d burned rubber away from my childhood home. I’d also caved and bought a pack of smokes. They were in my desk.

Miraculously untouched.

After the gym, I’d paced the office, working up the nerve to visit Tallus to see if he was feeling better. Bringing him soup felt stupid, and I second-guessed myself a thousand times before saying fuck it and going up to his apartment, take-out bag in hand. I did not expect the blow job in his bedroom, the confusing mess of thoughts afterward when he’d lain in my arms, nor had I expected to enjoy having him tag along with me all day as I chased clues for this godforsaken case.

But now what?

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