Page 49 of Reading Between the Lines
“Are you all friends with Weston?” I asked, glaring again at Atlas, whose blasé attitude was starting to grate on my nerves.
Duke raised a hand like he was in school. “I, for one, was not Weston’s friend.”
“Duke,” Londyn admonished with a whine. “Don’t be mean.”
“I wasn’t. Iknewhim. We hung out sometimes when in groups, but we weren’t friends.” Duke shrugged. “It’s not a crime. I didn’t say we were enemies.”
Chett huffed and resumed drawing, singing a version of a Rick Springfield song but changing the name. “’Cause she was Weston’s girl…”
“Shut up, asshole.” Duke smacked Chett’s hand, sending the pencil skittering across the table and tearing the napkin he was drawing on.
“You fucking jerk.”
“Stop it,” I snarled. “What about you, Picasso? Are you friends with Weston?”
Chett shoved his glasses up his nose, two hot points of red surfacing on his cheeks as he glared daggers at Duke.
Noel answered for him. “Chett and Weston have been best friends since Weston moved here. Attached at the hip. I only met Weston this year when he joined the club.”
“Club?” Tallus asked. “Would this be the writing club? What was it called again?”
I was about to answer when a chorus of voices chimed in simultaneously. Five of the six teens said, “The Whodunnits?”
The last voice, a meek and mild Londyn, said, “The Murder Club.”
11
Diem
Five sets of eyes turned to Londyn—Tallus’s and mine included—Duke looked at Loyal, and Atlas, smothering a smirk, stared hard at the table’s surface.
A gaping hole opened in the conversation. More than a pause. The clatter of dishes from the kitchen and other customers’ chatter played a soundtrack in the background, but no one at the teens’ table immediately spoke.
Then, Loyal laughed a hearty politician’s laugh that matched his politician’s smile. Reaching across the table, he patted his sister on the head in the most condescending way imaginable. “You’re such a treat. It’s a wonder you’ve made it this far in life. Gentlemen, we have many fun nicknames for the school writing club. Creative masterminds are like that. Its official title is The Whodunnits?”
In increments, the teens crawled out of the crater of silence, all but Londyn recovering with ease as though nothing strange had happened, but the fact that they’d reacted and had to recoverfrom anything was a massive red flag. My partner in crime picked up on it too. He may not have been facing me, but Tallus’s entire body went on alert.
A thing about Tallus: He was incapable of subtlety, and when he wanted to know something or was convinced he’d made a whopping discovery, he didn’t take time to assess the situation and figure out the best approach. He barreled right into the snake pit and started attacking without armor.
Before he jumped all over the Murder Club bandwagon, blowing the horn and calling in cavalry, I spoke up. I might lack couth, but Tallus lacked a filter.
“Are you all part of the Whodunnits? or whatever the fuck it’s called?”
“Honorary members.” Loyal’s teeth shone as he leaned back in the booth, draping an arm around Noel’s shoulder, feigning an easy, relaxed pose. He was good. Pretty Boy knew how to win an audience. I bet his teachers loved him.
“And Weston was a member?”
“New this year. I convinced him to join,” Chett said, body language a fraction tighter than before Londyn’s slip.
“No. I brought him in,” Londyn said, a stitch in her brow. “You guys said—”
Duke loudly coughed, cutting her off.
Again, Atlas smothered a smile, shaking his head.
Chett held out a staying hand to Loyal, who looked ready to jump in. He spoke slowly, enunciating his words. “Nooo.Ibrought him in, remember? Mr. Abercrombie made a big deal about it. Weston, the newspaper superstar. Weston, who’s going to write for a living. What a fantastic addition to our club, he said.”
“Oh. Right.” Londyn glanced wide-eyed at her brother, and for the first time, a flash of annoyance peeked through his artificial façade.
