Page 90 of Reading Between the Lines
“You’re saying his friends watched him fall into a racing river and didn’t try to save him.”
My shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. But hear me out. If he was dating Londyn, why was Delaney so positive he had no reason to be out that end of town? Londyn lives out that way. Ergo, why not consider they were at her place instead of the library? They could have been in the cabin or in her bedroom.Weston could have used the trail as a shortcut to get back to town and attend his newspaper meeting.”
“And maybe a pissed-off brother caught them fooling around?”
“Maybe. Or a jealous boy who wished he was dating her instead.”
“Duke.” Diem tossed me my phone and retrieved his from the bedside table, opening his contacts.
“Who are you calling?”
“Fucking Delaney. She’s paying for my goddamn Jeep repairs. Plus, we need a rental if we’re going to do anything today.”
“D, you’re hurt.”
“And I’m not sitting in this godforsaken B&B all day. Between the flowery smell and the pink frills, I’ll slit my fucking wrists.”
“At least the clocks are dead.”
The corner of his lips twitched as he connected a call. I loved making him smile.
“Ask her why she didn’t tell us Weston’s girlfriend lived out by the trail.”
“I will.”
“Ask her if—”
“Tallus, shut up.” Diem focused on the phone call, saying hello to whoever picked up, his voice low and mumbled.
I ate more breakfast while scanning the photos I’d taken. Curious, I used the iPad to look up the author of the fiction novels we’d noticed by the desk.
According to Google, Ambrose Whitaker was a best-selling mystery-thriller author with eleven published titles to his name. Eight of them were part of an ongoing series. I pulled up his profile on Amazon and confirmed that the titles we’d seen in the cabin were the same books. I wasn’t a reader, nor did I have any interest in becoming one, but for curiosity’s sake, I skimmed the blurbs of the few we’d discovered.
The main series seemed to follow two detectives investigating a serial killer who always stayed one step ahead of them. By the sound of it, each book presented a different case, but the killer had yet to be caught. He was too clever for the detectives, and apart from a few hints that strung the series together, bringing the authorities closer and closer to an arrest, none of the cases had yet been solved. Each book left off on a cliff-hanger.
I could see why the Murder Club was so interested in this Ambrose guy’s work. He’d written clever mysteries about crimes that stumped the police. In essence, the teens had been trying to do the same. This Ambrose guy seemed to be their hero.
“Who?” Diem’s raised voice drew my attention from a world of fiction I would never explore.
A scowl pinched his brow, and I mouthed, “What?” knowing he wouldn’t answer.
“Hang on. Say that again.” Diem’s frown deepened.
He disconnected the call a minute later, but the deep groove between his brows remained. His gaze shifted left and right several times as though he was trying to see an unclear image inside his head.
“What?” I asked again.
Diem pointed at the iPad. “Are you using that?”
“No.” My search was done, so I handed it over.
Diem’s unshakable concentration meant that it didn’t matter how many times I asked what he was doing, he wouldn’t answer. So I waited. He typed furiously at the attached keyboard for five or six minutes. Typing and reading, reading and typing. He must have found what he needed.
Huffing, he flopped back against the headrest and scrubbed a hand over his head. “Motherfucker.”
“What?”
Again, nothing.
