Page 29 of Reading Between the Lines
“You can give us space to work and not hover. If we have questions, we’ll find you.” Diem’s tone was as harsh as Irvin’s, but the woman didn’t argue and left us alone.
“You should be nice to the grieving mother.”
“No.”
“She’s paying the rent, D. Compassion goes a long way in job retention.”
He grumble-nodded something resembling agreement and booted up the laptop. It was the best I was going to get out of him.
The password screen popped up, and Diem cursed, punching the power button again to turn the machine off.
“I thought Delaney said the police disabled that. Would they have put it back on?” I asked.
“No, but an angry father who doesn’t want us here might have.”
“You can bypass it, right?”
He didn’t answer, but of course he could. I watched as Diem rebooted the computer in safe mode and did something behind the scenes. It was a lot of gibberish I didn’t understand.
“Will you teach me how to do that someday?”
“When you finish your course.”
I wrinkled my nose at the thought. “Will you teach me to pick locks, too?”
“When you finish your course.”
“You know, I could just as easily go on YouTube and learn it myself.”
“Or you could finish your fucking course so you weren’t lying to everyone’s face every time you told them you were a junior investigator.”
“I’ve done most of it.”
“Do the rest.”
“I hate school.”
“Then you will never have fancy credentials to flash around, and I won’t put your name on the sign.”
“I really want fancy credentials. It makes me feel like James Bond.”
“Tallus, do something productive so we can get the fuck out of here. If we can prove this theory is nothing more than the wishful thinking of a grieving mother, maybe we can go hometonight, and I can sleep in my own goddamn bed and not in the B&B from hell.”
“Yes, god forbid you share a bed with me.”
His heavy sigh hit my ears as I scanned the room, instantly regretting my petulance. Sometimes, I had the patience of Job. Other times, I wanted to shake Diem until he saw reason.
Unsure I saw the point of rooting through Weston’s belongings, but not wanting to be idle, I sat on the teen’s bed and started with the bedside table. Inside, I discovered a stack of notebooks similar to the one Delaney had presented at the hospital. The variegated shades of gray and brown told me they were likely different colors in a spectrum I couldn’t see.
I pulled them out and sat them on my knee, checking in with Diem before seeing what they were all about. His focus on the hard drive was absolute, so I bent to the task of digging into Weston’s life.
Each notebook was dated in permanent marker on the front. A start date and an end date. Each covered a stretch of about six weeks to three months per book, and they went back over two years. I thumbed through them, noting they were filled with what I assumed was Weston’s handwriting.
I started with the oldest, skimming its contents more closely and reading sections to get a feel for what they contained. It comprised substance on par with what Delaney had described when talking about her son’s passion for journalism. He’d listed topic ideas for the school newspaper, compiled reference notes, and had written rough drafts of articles he had either hoped to submit or had polished and submitted at some point. A few doodles and random comments in the margins did not pertain to school but fit the ideal of a teenager.
I set the first notebook aside and picked up the second. As I moved forward in time, the content matured and became more organized. It was clear the teen took this part of his educationseriously. Weston had performed interviews with agencies, organizations, and civilians in town, including a crossing guard near the elementary school who worried about the speed limit and the safety of children. A store owner who griped about the slow demise of independent businesses because everyone shopped online nowadays. A gentleman who complained that the city council and local police had repeatedly dismissed concerns about a troubling neighbor.
Weston had investigated town news and wrote reports reflecting his findings. He’d compiled questionnaires and listed debate topics. But everything I came across was news-related. Nonfiction.
