Page 112 of Reading Between the Lines
“I need one of those,” I said under my breath, more to myself than anyone.
Diem caught my eye and winked. He didn’t exactly smile, but it was close. Love poured from his eyes, and I swooned again for the second time in five minutes.
Delaney guided us to a sitting room once our drinks were poured. We settled onto furniture that I’d only seen in showrooms. It was then I got a good look at Weston’s mother. She didn’t look any better than she had when we first arrived in town. Shadows hung beneath her eyes, and although I didn’t know what she usually looked like, she seemed gaunt and sallow.It was as though the life that had drained from her son had drained from her as well. She seemed ten years older than she had a few days earlier.
“Thank you for stopping by,” she said, hugging a mug of coffee between her hands. She had yet to sip it, and I wondered how many coffees had gone cold and forgotten in her grief.
“Your son didn’t have an accident,” Diem said, starting the ball rolling. “I told you that on the phone, and we’re very close to proving it.”
“Who’s responsible?”
I glanced at Diem, taking notes on how he approached a question we had yet to answer for ourselves. “Until we have proof, I don’t want to toss names about, but this could be much bigger than one attempted murder.”
“It’s not an attempt, Mr. Krause. Itismurder. My son will not live.”
He nodded, swallowing hard enough that his prominent Adam’s apple traveled along his unshaven neck.
“Are you saying more people have died?”
“It’s possible.”
Delaney’s face crumpled as she stared into her mug. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Are more children in danger?”
“If what we found proves true, more people could die,” I said. “Ma’am, wewillsolve this case. We will get justice for your son. Tell him that next time you see him.”
“I will.” Seemingly fortified by my words, she lifted her chin. “You will forever have my gratitude. If there’s anything I can do…”
I glanced again at Diem, whose attention was elsewhere. I followed his gaze and found Irvin eavesdropping at the door. The man’s face was cut from stone. He backed away with a look of disgust and vanished into another part of the house.
“Could we look through Weston’s room again?” Diem asked. “We have new theories and new information. Fresh eyes may help us see something we might have missed before.”
“Absolutely.”
Delaney guided us to the second level and Weston’s room. She peered around with a terrible longing in her eyes. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
Diem stood in the middle of the bedroom, scanning with a look of scrutiny.
“What are we hoping to find?” I asked.
“Those kids killed him, but I don’t know why. Weston must have crossed lines or had a falling out with someone. He was part of the club. He knew their secrets. Maybe a relationship soured. Maybe Duke’s jealousy caused a riff, and it came to a head. Maybe Chett got annoyed that Weston was interfering with his advance into the realm of coolness. Maybe Weston’s teenage hormones got the better of him, and he pressured Londyn into something she wasn’t ready for. Maybe he forced himself on her.”
“Maybe Loyal found out and was protecting his sister.”
Diem nodded, and we locked gazes. “Maybe.”
I scanned the room but couldn’t figure out how we’d find anything to support those claims. A phone would have been ideal. Teenagers used their cell phones more than computers nowadays. They communicated through text more than they talked to one another in person, but Weston’s phone was long gone.
“Social media?” I suggested, motioning to the laptop. “You can access almost all of them from a desktop. You don’t need a phone.”
Diem sat at the desk and did his thing. Teens these days were less fond of Facebook, so I wasn’t surprised Weston’s profileshowed sporadic activity and nothing in the last eight months. Instagram was a different story.
While Diem browsed, I circled the room, seeking anything we’d missed before that might corroborate our theory about a feud. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I dug through the bedside table again, located the notebooks, and flipped through the pages a second time.
Finding nothing new, I replaced them and examined the framed articles on the wall. Ones representing stories from his favorite journalists, and a few written by his hero. His father.
Diem cursed under his breath as he clicked through a few screens on another social media site. He didn’t seem to be having better luck than me. I approached the stacks of magazines in the corner and discovered a few hardcover books behind them, wrapped in Mylar book covers like the ones we’d seen at the library. I noted the stack on our first visit but dismissed them as unimportant. Their transparent plastic protective wrap seemed to suggest they didn’t belong to Weston, which made me curious.
Ignoring Diem’s grumbling, I examined the stack more closely. The book on the top of the pile was a memoir. The subtitle suggested the subject was a journalist of some notoriety. I’d never heard of the guy. I opened the flap and located the Port Hope Public Library stamp inside, as I suspected I might.
