Page 120 of Reading Between the Lines
If I had to guess, Loyal had called and warned him the car accident diversion hadn’t worked and that the police were headed in his direction.
At Abercrombie’s feet, propped against the obelisk, were the skeletal remains of a woman dressed in a wedding gown and veil. Not crimson like in the book, but a dingy yellow that must have been white at some time.
Sonya Brydges had not run off on her wedding day, leaving her future husband and children behind. She’d been murdered and left to rot in an abandoned cemetery for years.
Abercrombie didn’t acknowledge our arrival, but I figured he knew we were there since we’d blasted through the forest like a ten-ton wrecking ball.
I could hear Constable Hercules catching up. The sirens in the distance were closing in on our location, so he must have redirected them to the cemetery road.
“D? What do we do?”
“Nothing. He knows he’s done for.” I took Tallus’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t panic, but the police are probably going to cuff us and toss us in a cell overnight, too. It will work out okay in the end. I promise.”
30
Tallus
Diem was half right. They cuffed us, took us to the station, and questioned us for hours about Abercrombie, the books, and our suspicion that Loyal was responsible for murdering Weston. Then, they letmego.
Diem, on the other hand, was given a cell for the night since Hercules had found a handful of reasons to detain him, including verbally assaulting a police officer, fleeing from a police officer, reckless driving causing an accident, fleeing the scene of an accident, suspected arson, automobile theft, and vandalism.
Despite being guilty of almost all the same things, they let me walk out of the station at close to midnight, warning me that I should stay close because they weren’t done with me. Since I couldn’t return to Ivory Lace B&B—supposedly, we’d been banned from the establishment after she discovered the mountain of smashed clocks—I had nowhere to go.
With no vehicle, no appropriate clothing, and a blizzard surrounding me—it had started to snow while we were being questioned—I considered who I might call for a rescue.
I didn’t have Delaney’s number—Diem did—and showing up at her house in the middle of the night might piss off her husband. He’d been less than cordial through the entire case.
My mother was out of the question. She would crucify me if she found out what happened this past week.
Kitty didn’t own a vehicle, and Memphis was a dramatic bitch on a good day. Asking him to drive to Port Hope in a snowstorm when he drove a compact car with no snow tires was never going to fly.
Sighing, I hit connect on the number of the only person who might be understanding enough and not give me hell.
He answered on the third ring. “Whoever this is, you’re going to die. It’s fucking midnight, and I’m sleeping. What do you want?”
“Hey, Costa. It’s Tallus. I need help.”
***
The drive to Port Hope from Toronto was about an hour and a half on a good day. In a snowstorm, it took my cousin shy of three to arrive.
The receptionist at the police station let me wait in the lobby, where I’d struggled to keep my eyes open, but the second Costa showed up, I was out the door.
“Here.” He handed me a steaming cup of takeout coffee the second I landed in his car. “Burnt gas station coffee. It’s probably yesterday’s leftovers, and I can’t promise the milk wasn’t sour, but it’s hot.”
“Thank you.”
He kept the car running and turned down the radio. The police station building was lit up, even at that early hour.
Costa bumped my shoulder. “All right. I’m here. Fill me the fuck in. All of it.”
Over the phone, I’d kept it brief, telling my cousin that Diem and I had gotten in an accident while chasing down a killer. Because of it, we’d wound up tangled in red tape and Diem had been arrested for a number of reasons. When he heard I had no vehicle and no place to go for the night, he told me to shut up and find somewhere warm, and he was on his way.
So, I owed him the full story.
I told him about Delaney hiring us and her request that we prove someone tried to kill her son. I told him about the secret murder club, the writing cabin in the woods, the man and his dog, the tree branch that fell on Diem and the Jeep, the B&B and its calamity of clocks, my nighttime venture back to the cabin, and the fire that had melted my glasses and almost killed me. Then, even though it wasn’t relevant, I told him about Diem’s declaration of love, his broken knuckles, and our trip to the emergency room the next town over.
I told him about the books written by Ambrose Whitaker, how they were true stories made to look like fiction, about the bodies discovered by the Port Hope police, and how at least one of them matched a victim from a novel. I told him about the English teacher, Mr. Abercrombie, about his wife and how we realized the woman inThe Crimson Veilwas her.
