Page 59 of Script Swap
The other was a cute little coupe.Based on my expert knowledge of cars, I could tell that this car was: red, likely expensive, and fast.(I mean, it had to be fast: it was red.) It wasn’t a vehicle that belonged to any of the deputies, and it sure as heck didn’t belong to Sheriff Acosta.
I parked next to the coupe and headed up to the front door.Like the rest of the house, it wasn’t normal.It wasn’t even a rectangle.It was kind of like a star, but only if you stretched out the top bits.I had the feeling I was going to get tired of Terrence’s house pretty quickly.
When I knocked, no one answered.
Okay, I know I’ve probably leaned a little too heavily into the amateur sleuthing business.I mean, I recognize the downsides: amateur sleuthing doesn’t pay the bills.Amateur sleuthing stresses Bobby out.As a matter of fact, amateur sleuthing tends to drive Bobby bananas.And the Dash 2.0 Iron Man Project, or whatever I was calling it, was all about proving to Bobby that I was a good and suitable partner and that he could rely on me and that no, he shouldn’t leave me, and yes, please let me trap you into spending the rest of your life with me.(I immediately realized it sounded bad when I saidtrap.)
But here’s the other thing: sometimes I literally can’t help myself.
I gave the handle a try (it was a weird handle too—lots of pointy bits).It turned.The door inched open.
What if Fox had been hurt?
What if the red coupe belonged to the killer?
What if I had arrived in the nick of time to save the day?
(God help whoever was counting on me to save anybody.I tended to do my best work, er, after-the-fact, so to speak.)
Another nudge opened the door a few more inches, and I could see into the house.You probably already figured this out for yourself, but no, it wasn’t a normal house on the inside either.It was pretty, yes.The walls were pine, the floor was stone, and the general design principles seemed to be: nook, crannies, and crevices (in that order).By which I mean: the house was hollow on the inside—there were no interior walls, like the ultimate open-concept floor plan.Instead of something boring and old-fashioned like, you know, rooms, the space appeared to be divided up by function—the seating area, for example, consisted of a built-in bench that was way too narrow to be comfortable, and I mean, my God, nobody was ever going to be able to nap on it, and the “bedroom” (notice the scare quotes) was an angular little alcove with a custom mattress.
I said a little prayer to the patron saint of gay boys that Fox hadn’t grown up in this loony bin.
My sneakers scuffed stone as I stepped inside; the house must have been well-insulated, because it still held the night’s cool, the air laced with a hint of something that might have been cedar.A sound reached me, and I stopped: voices, barely more than murmurs, but echoing in the large, empty space.None of the niches, cubbies, or other architectural hidey-holes was occupied.Above me was a loft-style second story.I waited.The voices continued.A thunk.The rustle of papers.
I took the stairs slowly, testing each step.Some of the treads wanted to groan, so I eased my way past them.It could be a robbery.A robbery interrupted in progress.And Fox could have been knocked out, rendered unconscious.Bobby had warned me, when I first came to Hastings Rock, that the coast had some rough elements who might take advantage of a situation like this.News that Terrence was in the hospital, his home unoccupied, could have spread to the wrong person.Maybe Fox had shown up at exactly the wrong time.(Although, to be fair, it was hard to imagine a burglar planning to cart away all the valuables in their sporty red coupe.)
The stairs opened ahead of me directly onto the second floor.I could rush up the remaining steps and try to catch whoever was up there by surprise.Or I could crawl the rest of the way and hope to get a look at them and then make an informed decision.That was clearly the better option.It was safer.It was prudent.Heck, it wasresponsible.It wasn’t cowardly, no matter how many times Keme says you’re a wuss because you can only win atFortnitewhen you shoot him in the back.
Before I could move, though, Fox stepped to the top of the stairs, saw me, and screamed.
I screamed.
Fox said a bunch of words that the boys inFortnitesay all the time (Indira wouldforbidme and Keme from playing if she knew, which is why we have a solemn pact to only play when we’re wearing headphones).
I said a bunch of words I read in a George R.R.Martin novel.
With an extra-dramatic wave of their arms, Fox shouted, “What are you doing?”
“Saving you from robbers!”I shouted back.But I lost some steam when I added, “Maybe.”
Fox let out a wordless sound that communicated: A) I was an idiot, and B) they were at the end of their rope.To be fair, even if they ran out of rope, they’d probably be okay.Today’s outfit combined the best of “college lesbian” with “Appalachian miner”: so much denim, so many chains, and let’s be real, the hat with the carbide lamp pulled it all together.They had raccoon eyes, and their color was bad, but they’d clearly had time to go home, clean up, and change before—
“Wait,” I said.“What areyoudoing here?”
Grimacing, Fox moved back and waved for me to climb the rest of the way.The landing or loft or mezzanine—or whatever it was called—carried the same aesthetic from the ground floor: pine paneling, nooks and crannies and crevices, an iron stove.Unlike the ground floor, though, here large windows gave a view of the dunes and, beyond them, the ocean.A desk and chairs took up most of the space, and papers covered the desk.
A man stood next to the desk.Older, Latino, he had a full head of dark, graying hair and a neatly trimmed goatee.He wore a white oxford with jeans, and although age had thinned him out, he still had a leading man’s good looks.
“Carlos needed to talk to my father,” Fox said.“Dash, Carlos Zugasti.Carlos, Dash Dane.Carlos is on The Foxworthy’s board of directors.”
“I didn’t know The Foxworthy had a board of directors,” I said.
“That was one of my father’s ideas.He had lots of explanations, but the bottom line was that he needed money, and that meant opening the theater up to patrons and…investors.”
Carlos smiled.“Investors might be putting it a little strongly.”
“Yes, well,” Fox said, “there is a certain fiduciary interest, nevertheless.And when Carlos found out that my father had been trying to take out a second mortgage on The Foxworthy, he wanted to discuss the matter.”
