Page 52 of Reading Between the Lines
“Um, we’re running out of the building toward your vehicle, and I didn’t see a fire. This is the definition of leaving.”
“It’s not.”
“Guns—Whoa!”
Diem spun in the nick of time and caught my arm before I landed on my ass. I wrapped myself protectively around him, heart knocking.
“That was close.” Before he could open his mouth and reprimand me, I pressed a hand over it. “Nope. Don’t admonish me. These shoes are the epitome of fashion. I have few joys in life, and let’s be honest. The more times I try to fall on my ass, the more excuses you have to touch me… You don’t need anexcuse, by the way. You can touch me wherever and whenever you’d like. Except in church. That might not go over well. Not that church is likely to happen, but…” I grinned sheepishly. “So, thanks for the save.”
Diem narrowed his eyes, but a reserved hint of humor shone from within. “You’re hopeless.”
“You don’t hate it as much as you pretend.”
He righted me on my feet.
“But still, why are we leaving?”
“I said we’re not.” Diem manhandled me toward the Jeep and ensured I landed safely inside without maiming myself. He got in the driver’s door and put the vehicle in accessory mode, cranking the heat and aiming the vents in my direction.
Then he stared at the diner without saying another word.
“D? You’re doing that not communicating thing again. I thought we were trying to get an idea of who wrote that story.”
“We are.”
“It’s going to be a lot tougher if we don’t… I don’t know… talk to people.” I dramatically motioned to the diner.
He continued to stare.
“D?”
“Think about it. If our theory is that someone else wrote the story and used it as a fucked-up instruction manual or threat before trying to kill Weston, then logic states it was someone from the writing club, right?”
“Yes. Hence, one of those teens might recognize the writing and be able to—”
“Or one of those kids is the author and culprit.”
“Oooh. Touché.”
“What do you think will happen if we shove the only proof we have in their faces and tell them we know Weston didn’t write it and the author is suspected of murder?”
I blanched. “I… never thought of that.”
“Exactly.” Diem scratched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “And something doesn’t sit right with me. Did you read the room when Londyn called their little club a Murder Club?”
“Yes. Jesus. What the hell was that?”
“A slip of the tongue… and not the good kind.”
I smirked. “Guuuns. Did you make a joke? I’m not used to you trying to be funny. It’s kinda cute.”
“Shut up.” But he was almost smiling.
“I saw their reactions, but it made sense on the surface, so I brushed it off. You know, the Whodunnits? The Murder Club. They like to write murder mysteries. Maybe the teacher wouldn’t let them call it something too sinister, so it’s a name they use behind his back.”
“No. They’re hiding something. There was a lot of sketchy behavior happening at that table, and not one of those kids looked sad about their friend who’s basically dead.”
“Be nice.”
