Page 37 of Reading Between the Lines
The boy flicked his gaze in my direction and back to Tallus. “You could check the resource room if he’s not in his classroom.” He referenced his phone. “But he’s probably packing up to head home now. It’s after five.”
“Are you with the police?” the girl asked.
“Why do you assume that?”
She shrugged.
The boy answered. “They were here last week, asking questions about West’s accident.”
“You know Weston Mandel?” Tallus asked.
I eyed the janitor, who was clearly eavesdropping, and wished Tallus would steer away from the case. I was all for breaking the rules, but not in the wide open where we might get caught.
The teens shrugged in an eerily similar fashion. “Everyone knows Weston,” the girl said defensively.
“It’s a small school,” the boy added. “Everyone knows everyone. Pretty freaking tragic what happened. Rocked us all when we heard.”
The girl’s bottom lip jutted a fraction, and she blinked heavily a few times before ducking her head.
The janitor had stopped pushing the broom and openly gawked.
“Why are you looking for Mr. A?” the boy asked.
Tallus glanced over his shoulder as though seeking direction.
I tipped my head toward the nosy custodian and raised a brow, hoping to indicate he shouldn’t hide our role since any other explanation might land us in hot water. At least if we were honest and professional, we had an excuse to be on school premises.
“We’re investigators. The family hired us to ask a few questions. Look into stuff.”
The girl raised her head, concern widening her eyes. “Look into stuff? But why? I thought—”
“West had an accident, didn’t he?” the boy interrupted. “That’s what we were told.”
The girl glanced at the boy, but he didn’t seem to notice since he focused on Tallus.
“That’s what we heard too. Where might I find this teacher’s classroom?”
“It’s Abercrombie.” The boy gave directions, and Tallus thanked him, strutting toward me with a look of satisfaction.
“Smooth,” I said.
“It’s called charm, sweetheart.”
“Uh-huh. I was afraid you were going to get too personal.”
“You said not to. I listen.”
We weaved along a few hallways and eventually found the English teacher’s classroom. The door sat ajar, and a man in his mid-forties occupied a standard desk in the corner, stacking paperwork and shoving it into a briefcase. Out the window behind him, the rain had turned to sleet, pelting the glass pane with a vengeance thanks to a gusty wind that must have arrived in the short time we’d been inside.
Tallus pointed at himself, asking if I wanted him to do the talking. I shook my head, and he pouted. Instead of responding, I rapped my knuckles on the door and pushed it open, entering before I could be invited.
The man behind the desk startled. A shock of artfully styled dark hair fell into his eyes. It hung in layered waves to nearly his jaw. With a frown, he moved a pair of reading glasses to the top of his head, pinning the hair back. “Can I help you?” He checked the time on an expensive-looking watch.
The man had European good looks—a cut jaw speckled with stubble, eyes dark as pitch, a Roman nose, and a frame that suggested he did not neglect his health. I bet all his students paid close attention when he taught.
“Are you Hugh Abercrombie?” I asked without preamble.
“I am. How may I help you?”
