Page 39 of Reading Between the Lines
Hugh reluctantly broke eye contact with me to answer Tallus’s question. “Yes. As I said, he was one of my best students. He’s been writing for the paper since grade nine.”
“On that note. Last one. I promise.” Tallus offered the composition Delaney had presented to us in the hospital. “Please read this closely and tell us if you believe this to be Weston’s writing.”
Begrudgingly, Hugh accepted the pages and glanced at the first few lines before shoving it back at Tallus with narrowed eyes. “What is this about? Honestly, why are you gentlemen poking your nose into something the police have—”
“Answer the goddamn question.” The growl in my tone didn’t go unnoticed.
Hugh glared, but I had him beat in size and determination.
“Like I told the police.” His tone was an exercise in control. “Yes, this is Weston’s writing. Can I explain the unusual premise of the story? No. Did I see it before the accident that put him in the hospital? No. Weston was a stickler for perfection, andas you can clearly see by the edits, he was still working on fine-tuning it.”
“But that’s not his writing.” Tallus’s objection rang clear. He hated it when people dismissed his ideas—especially when convinced he was right—and Hugh had discarded the story with hardly a glance.
Abercrombie worked his jaw.
The freezing rain tormented us, drowning the silence with its assault.
Glancing between us, Abercrombie said with finality, “ItisWeston’s story, and I think this conversation is over.”
Tallus huffed, lifted his chin, and adopted a hottie stance. Oh boy. Mr. English Teacher was about to get the full dose of the snark I’d warned him about.
“That’s fine. Our investigation isn’t over. You know as well as I do that Weston didn’t write this story.” Tallus shook the pages in Abercrombie’s face. “But someone did, and Delaney Mandel is right. It’s too coincidental and suspicious to sweep under the rug. This is what we in the investigative business refer to as premeditation.” He emphasized the word, nodding. “Uh-huh. And we’ll prove it. Someone is going down.”
I swiped a hand over my mouth to cover a smirk. The sass had been unleashed, and there was no stopping him.
“Perhaps,” Tallus continued, studying the composition with a scrutinous eye, “we should chat with the students in the writing club. So far as I can see, the quality of this story isn’t on the same level as Weston’s usual writing. The word choices are basic, like whoever wrote it didn’t own one of those… terminology-changer thingies. Goddammit. What the hell is that book called? Not a dictionary, but a…” He snapped his fingers and waved a hand.
“Thesaurus,” Hugh and I said at the same time.
“Yes. One of those. The sentences aren’t varied. The words are simple. The voice is flat. The prose is juvenile, and yes, I know what prose is. I went to college. Didn’t love it, but I went.
“Weston has a certain pizzazz when he writes. It’s tighter. More sophisticated. Even this amateur can see it. This story lacks the same zip. So, you know what I think,Hugh?” He emphasized theH. “I think one of the other students wrote it, and I’m going to find out who because they have a lot of explaining to do. Premeditation,” Tallus stage-whispered, in case we’d missed the suggestion the first time.
Mr. English Teacher’s nostrils flared, and he looked like he wanted to spit nails. I’d warned him, but Tallus’s personality was one you had to experience to fully understand. I’d spent months unsure if I wanted to strangle him or fuck him.
When Hugh spoke, his tone was carefully controlled, calm and unaggressive. I gave the man props. “You’re mistaken. Like I explained to the police. Theprofessionals.Weston was primarily a nonfiction writer. He was the paper’s assistant editor. His focus was on articles of factual value. He reported the news. He wanted to make a career of it. Travel the world. Write forNational Geographic. At sixteen, he was already outshining his father. Irvin Mandel is a mediocre journalist, and Weston would have been a superstar. When he joined the writing club in late September, it came as a shock, but I never turn a student away. Writing fiction is an entirely different ball game, but Weston was determined to learn. To expand his repertoire. I commended him.
“Yes, his work wasn’t on the same level as the articles he produced for the paper, and if you ask me, this piece that has everyone in a knot was one of his first. I would wager a guess he wasn’t happy with it. Weston was a perfectionist. You can see how meticulously he edited it. This story was never presented to the club because I believe he discarded it and moved on withother stories. As it often does with practice, Weston’s writing improved. That’s it. There is nothing nefarious or suspicious, or dare I say,premeditatedabout it. It’s simply an unfortunate coincidence.”
“Bullshit,” Tallus spat when Abercrombie finished his speech. I had to bite back a smile because there were days when Tallus took the words right out of my mouth. “How do you explain him falling into a river?”
“As I’m sure you’ve learned from the police or Mrs. Mandel, Weston was doing research for a series of articles on winter safety for the paper. One of those—”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m not buying it. Never mind. We don’t need your help. We’ll see what Weston’s friends think.”
Hugh Abercrombie wrinkled his Roman nose in a sneer as he glanced between us. His professional demeanor was slipping. “I think it’s time you leave, and I’m warning you now to stay away from the students, orIwill get the police involved. Whatever poor Mrs. Mandel hired you for, I can assure you, it doesn’t give you permission to harass underage teenagers without parental consent. I’m very sorry she doesn’t agree with the police’s assessment of her son’s accident, but your presence will do nothing more than upset people who are already grieving a terrible tragedy.” He motioned to the door. “Good day, gentlemen. I don’t think it will be necessary for us to see each other again.”
9
Tallus
Darkness had fallen by the time we got back to the Jeep. A coating of ice covered the parking lot, and Diem insisted on holding my arm, grumbling something about inappropriate footwear and did I want to break my neck because his insurance didn’t cover stupidity.
I let him grumble it out. He was upset because we’d learned diddly, which meant another night at the B&B in a room with only one bed. Diem was a big man with big feelings, and sometimes, it took a while for him to process them all. He was more apt to take side quests until they ran out rather than face the final dragon before he was ready.
With the heat running, melting the ice that had formed on the windshield, we sat in silence, puzzling the ineffective interview we’d had with the English teacher who, in the end, had kindly told us to fuck off exactly as Diem had predicted.
I held my hands to the heat pumping from the vents, but it did nothing to stop the inner tremble I’d developed from havingworn soaking-wet clothes for over half an hour. My jaw ached from trying to prevent my teeth from chattering, knowing if they did, Diem would launch into a lecture that would end with a well-earned “I told you so.”
