Page 28 of Script Swap
After I’d explained that I wanted to check out Kyson’s apartment, the sheriff was silent for a moment, thinking.Then she said, “Take Bobby with you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re securing a potential crime scene, Mr.Dane.We don’t know where Kyson was killed, and we don’t know what kind of evidence the apartment might have.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That means I expect you to take appropriate precautions not to destroy evidence.”
“Of course, Sheriff.I’m not an amateur.”
The sheriff stood there, hands on her hips.
“I regretted it literally as soon as it came out of my mouth,” I said.
Chapter 6
Mossfern Estates, it turned out, was on the east side of town.It wasn’t an area I went to often.The east side of town was the inland side, which meant that it was more affordable than other neighborhoods because, for most people, it was less desirable.That’s not to say that the area was unattractive.Sure, the homes tended to be older, and there were some stretches of county road that needed to be patched.But like everywhere on the coast, it was still gorgeous: big stands of pine and spruce, ferns lining the roads, thick layers of duff that smelled sweet and resinous when the windows were down.The Swift River ran here, and although that meant that some parts were swampy and, uh, insect-y, it also offered beautiful views.The waters were high this year, and when we crossed an old stone bridge, Mr.Archer and two of his grandkids were fishing off the side of it.Mr.Archer waved and then hurried to help one of the little kids who was flailing a fishing rod, trying to land a fish.
We drove in silence.It was, for the most part, a comfortable silence.Bobby wasn’t a chatterbox (I’m sure you’re shocked), and as we’d spent more time together, I’d started to love how easy it was to be with him, how calming it felt not to have to say anything, how comfortable I was.
That was all true in general.It didn’t apply when I was still trying to figure out the weirdness that had happened backstage at The Foxworthy.
Was it guilt?That thought popped into my head.Was Bobby projecting?I mean, in the last few months, things had definitely cooled off between us in the monkey-business department.(Can you call it monkey business if you’re more than twelve years old?) We hadn’t talked about it, not in depth, but I understood.Bobby’s mom had died.Bobby was still grappling with powerful, complicated emotions.Grief, obviously.A lot of anger.And it was common, during those times, for someone’s sex drive to drop.Did I miss Bobby?Sure.I mean, sex with Bobby was great.Sex with Bobby was myfavorite.(Not to get into the weeds about it, but he was a real gentleman but also, uh, intense, and if you haven’t experienced that combination, it’s chef’s kiss).
But had I been wrong?Was Bobby seeing somebody else, and that’s why we hadn’t been intimate?
No.
Absolutely not.
Bobby—my Bobby—would never do something like that.
So then why had he gone psycho—for lack of a better word—back at the theater (even if it was only his oh-so-gentle Bobby version of it)?
Inquiring minds wanted to know.(Also, it was making my tummy hurt.)
“How are revisions going?”Bobby asked.
The question—and the topic—seemed to come out of nowhere, and it took me a moment to reorient myself.After receiving some rejections on the manuscript of my novel (by which I mean, a cascade of nos from literally every agent I could think of), I’d been revising with the hopes of: a) finding another agent, somewhere, I hadn’t already queried (probably hiding under a rock), and b) getting representation.
“They’re going,” I said.But that didn’t seem like enough, so I added, “They’re good.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.”
The tires hummed.
“Are you getting close to finishing?”Bobby asked.
“I don’t know.Probably.I guess I have to be finished with them sometime.”
We drove under an old pine.The shadows were cool against my face.
Bobby glanced over.“Did something happen?”
“What do you mean?”
