Page 18 of Reading Between the Lines
The distraught mother shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible. I suppose everything they said is possible. My son is thorough. He could have gone out there to take pictures for his article. He could have written a short story based on a topic he was intimately acquainted with. But like I said before, it doesn’t fit his voice. The writing style is far too immature for Weston. I’ve seen his work.”
“Can I play devil’s advocate?” Tallus asked. “If Weston was used to writing nonfiction, his venture into fiction could explain why it seems underdeveloped. He’s new to the writing club. His imagination isn’t like the other students, so he picks a topic he’s been studying lately for familiarity and ease. He’s also used to writing factually, so his creative juices don’t flow the same. Therefore, the story has an immature voice you aren’t used to.”
Tallus hit the nail on the head, and Delaney couldn’t argue the assessment. For a long time, the only sound was the sucking and beeping of Weston’s machines as they kept him alive.
“None of it explains his unusual mood leading up to this. His… evasiveness.” Delaney turned to me. “You promised me two days, Mr. Krause. Come to the house. Go through Weston’s room. Get to know my son and who he is—was—before you dismiss my theory. Maybe you’re right. Maybe the police are right, but what ifI’mright. What if someone did this to him? Before I say goodbye to my son, I want no more doubt in my mind. Please help me get there or help me find the truth.”
6
Diem
“That was heavy,” Tallus said as we got into the Jeep. “I could barely breathe in that suffocating room.”
I grunted in agreement. Too manyaccidentsgrowing up meant I’d developed a strong dislike for hospitals. It wasn’t necessarily the cloying smell of antiseptic and sickness that smacked you in the face when you entered, but the quiet sense of doom that hung in the air. Hospitals, to me, represented pain and suffering, not health and wellness. They unearthed long-buried memories I worked hard to forget. I’d spent countless hours in emergency rooms with broken arms, dislocated shoulders, deep cuts that required stitches, and wild tales to fool the smartest of nurses and doctors, cleverly instilled upon me by my father.
I’d learned to lie under the threat of more violence. More pain. More suffering.
Heavydidn’t begin to explain the thickness of the atmosphere. Hospitals threatened a PTSD reaction if I didn’t keep a careful hold of myself.
“Are you okay?” Tallus asked with too much concern.
“Fine.”
“You seem… tense.”
“I’m fine.”
“Was it because—”
“Tallus. Don’t.”
He smartly shut up and adjusted the temperature setting before angling the heat vents so they blew hot air over his outstretched hands. The outdoor temperature hovered near freezing, and Tallus’s tendency to dress for fashion rather than practicality meant he was likely cold.
We had a couple of hours before our scheduled meeting at Delaney’s house in Port Hope. She wanted time with her son, and I wanted time to consider the information on the table.
“What do you think of all this?” Tallus asked as I pulled from the hospital parking lot. “Do we have a case?”
“I don’t know.”
“What she’s suggesting is pretty convoluted. I mean, not only does the story illustrate the exact accident, but it suggests there was a second person involved. If Weston didn’t write it, who did? And why was it in his possession? It makes no sense.”
I grunted, aiming for the highway. All good questions.
“Then again, what the police suggest seems equally convoluted, don’t you think? A nice, easy way to ignore something super concerning.”
Another grunt escaped me before I caught how uncommunicative I was being and added, “I agree.”
“I can see Delaney’s concern, but if the police couldn’t find proof of her theory, what the hell does she expect us to do?”
I grunted, shrugged, and mumbled, “I don’t know.”
“What’s our plan?”
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, what exactly is there to investigate?”
“I don’t know.”
