Page 70 of Reading Between the Lines
He disconnected with a growl.
“That wasn’t very nice.”
Pointing the phone at me, he spat, “Don’teverfucking do that.”
“What?”
“You know what. I don’t have time to worry about my fucking snake, and the last thing I needed was to call my fucking landlord.”
Diem didn’t explain, nor did he take us back onto the road. Instead, he did something on his phone—checked his email if the conversation I’d overheard told me anything. Whatever he found must not have been pleasant. He tossed the phone on the dash with a slurry of more curses.
Spinning tires and spitting gravel, he took us back onto the road and drove, scowl etched into every groove of his face. Remembering the overdue bills in the glove box and his casual mention about not paying last month’s rent, I concluded his mood had something to do with money.
Trying to shift the conversation, I steered back to what we’d been talking about before he’d called home, hoping it would ease him back into a better headspace. “If you had a dog, she could have come with us. You could be the new ageTurner and Hoochduo.”
“Tallus, I don’t want a fucking dog. In what universe do you see me as a suitable dog owner?”
“In this one. Echo liked you.”
“Because she’s a stupid fucking mutt who doesn’t know an asshole when she sees one.”
“You’re not an asshole, and she has good instincts.”
“She doesn’t… Christ, I’m not having this conversation, and PS,Turner and Hoochhad a sad ending. Is that what you want for me? A sad ending?”
I chuckled. “No, D. Never mind. I’m dropping it. You’re hopeless.”
Diem could act miserable all he wanted, but I’d watched his interaction with the retriever back at Nicholas’s house, and during our short visit, the pup had managed to keep Diem from losing his cool more than once. Even I couldn’t always do that. Diem had touched the dog without thought. He’d shown it affection, attention, and gentleness. Witnessing their exchange made me smile and gave me hope. My surly, emotionally compromised boyfriend was not the lost cause he thought he was.
We located the twins’ house on Hope Street. The monstrosity exuded pretentiousness and displayed their upper-class status for all to see. It was easily the most affluent house on the block, which was saying a lot because all the houses along the river on Hope Street were colossal.
“We could knock on the door and insist on a chat,” I suggested.
“No. The parents could make trouble, and we won’t get what we need. Tomorrow. That’s the SUV we saw at the diner.” He hitched his chin to the familiar white SUV. It was parked beside a sleek black BMW. “So we know what they drive, where they live, and where they go to school. What I want to know is when and where this secret club meets and who’s a member. I want everyone’s whereabouts accounted for on the afternoon Weston went in the river, starting with the girlfriend.”
“School starts at eight, so we should plan to be here around seven thirty.”
“Seven. I don’t want to be anywhere near that fucking B&B when the air raid sirens go off.”
I chuckled. “Good call. What about the library? We could ask a librarian if they remember seeing Weston and Londyn that morning.”
Diem checked the time on the dash. Reading his mind, I googled the local library to find out their hours of operation and discovered a notice.Closed due to the ice storm.
“Tomorrow.”
We headed back to the B&B, much to Diem’s annoyance. He likely wished we had a hundred other tasks to perform, seeing as he hated the place.
When I suggested a bath, Diem said no. When I suggested a game of pool down in the common room, Diem said fuck no. I suggested a movie, but there was no TV, and Diem refused to use his iPad for nonsense. My stomach growled, so I suggested food, and Diem stormed out the door, returning twenty minutes later with yet another pizza.
Emotionally, Diem was a complex and layered individual, but when it came to fulfilling his basic bodily need for nourishment, he hated fuss. We ate a lot of pizza. I didn’t complain.
I brought the box to the bed and nibbled a slice.
Diem refused to join me.
All my cranky partner wanted to do was pace the room and fret about having to spend another night beside me in bed. Such a travesty. He didn’t say that was the problem, but I knew. I sensed these things. He’d managed to pack his anxiety away all day as we’d run around town, but the second evening hit and we were back within the four claustrophobic walls of our room with only one bed between us, he struggled not to lose his mind.
He couldn’t talk about the case. He couldn’t make plans for the following day. He couldn’t eat, especially with his jaw clenched, and my glowing sass got me nothing but dirty looks.
