Page 30 of Reading Between the Lines
Halfway through the third book, I discovered a list of universities where Weston wanted to apply. A second column showed jobs in the big wide world where he might work when he graduated. More interview notes, a few random comments that seemed disjointed, and a list of websites.
Nothing struck me as unusual. He was a kid working hard to make his dream come true.
“Can I see that notebook?” The one Delaney had shown us in the hospital sat on the desk beside Diem.
He handed it off, along with the short story the mother had found wedged inside. The date on the cover marked the notebook as current, and the blank pages at the back confirmed Weston had yet to fill it. After a minute of skimming, reading partial articles, and taking in the full effect of the content, I closed it and frowned.
I read the short story again and sighed. “She’s right.”
“What?”
“Delaney. The tone of this short story doesn’t match Weston’s other writing. I don’t think it’s his.”
Diem didn’t respond. He seemed engrossed in something on the computer.
The editing notes in the margin were definitely Weston’s handwriting, but I couldn’t make sense of the story itself. It didn’t fit. If he didn’t write it, then who did? Why was it in his possession? And was the eerie depiction of the incident by the river a coincidence?
Not making heads or tails of anything, I glanced at Diem. “Anything on the laptop?”
At first, he didn’t respond.
“D?”
With an inarticulate grunt, he motioned for me to join him. I left the short story and notebooks on the bed and moved to the desk, hovering over Diem’s shoulder. On the screen was what appeared to be another short story.
I skimmed the first few paragraphs, determining quickly it was meant to be a murder mystery. I read more. It was condensed and moved too fast, even for a short story. The perspective and story arc were weak, but I immediately noted how the writing matched Weston’s style better.
I leaned over Diem and scrolled to the next page, then the next, taking in the full five-page draft. It wasn’t much, but it had a beginning, middle, and end. And it was definitely fiction.
“There’s a bunch of them.” Diem closed the document and brought up a file where a few more were listed, all with quirky murder mystery titles. “Honestly, it makes Delaney’s theory harder to swallow. Here’s proof the kid wrote short story murder mysteries, and they’re all shitty like the one she shared with us.”
“But they’re not the same quality of shitty.”
“They are.”
“Hang on.” I swiveled Diem and the desk chair around and planted myself on his lap without asking.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Getting cozy.” Diem’s body was only slightly less rigid than the chair, but I ignored his obvious discomfort and openedanother story, reading several pages before closing it and diving into a third.
“They’re not the same,” I reiterated.
“Can you… Tallus… Why are you… Will you just… Please.”
“Get comfortable with the uncomfortable, D.”
“But you’re—”
“Sitting on your lap.”
“Tallus.” The waver in his voice made me smile. The poor man couldn’t think when I invaded his space.
Taking pity, I moved from his lap and spun him to face me. The wariness in his eyes remained.
“Weston didn’t write about his accident or attempted murder or whatever we’re calling it. Someone else did.”
“How do you know?”
