Page 67 of Script Swap
The wind was low tonight, its pitch rising and falling and relentless.
“There are a lot of problems with Nora’s claims,” Bobby said tentatively.
“That’s putting it mildly.You know Nora did it, right?”
“Her knowledge does seem incriminating.”
“But let me guess: the sheriff can’t do anything.No, Bobby, that’s not an accusation.I don’t blame the sheriff.I mean, forty years?How are they going to prove anything?Let me guess: they’re looking for prints, but they haven’t found anything usable yet.”
Bobby’s silence was its own answer.
“They’re not going to find anything,” I said.“She would have been careful.I mean, she got away with it.And now she’s going to get away with it again.With killing Kyson, too.With almost killing Terrence.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure.Kyson’s trophy was hidden with the body—you were right about the murder weapon.”
“It’s about the only thing I got right.”
Bobby hesitated, then said, “The trophy’s glass, and if anything took a print, it’ll be that.”
“But they haven’t found a print, have they?Not on the trophy.Not on anything.”
“The state lab has more resources.”
I blew out a breath.“They won’t find anything.She’s going to get away with it.”
Bobby’s hand stopped rubbing my foot.And then he got hold of my big toe and gave it a shake.
In spite of myself, I laughed.
“Don’t give up,” Bobby said with that quiet calm.
“I’m not giving up,” I said.“I’m—I’m givingin.”
Bobby’s silence was, to say the least, resounding.
“That’s a writerly distinction.It’s elegant.And meaningful.”
“What does it mean?”
“Well, I don’t know.See, that’s the other thing I learned tonight: I’m a bad writer.”
“Dash.”
“No, it’s okay.It’s taken me a long time to accept that.But Iam, and it’s better to face it now than keep pretending.”
The wind’s crooning wrapped itself around the old house.
“Dash, you’re a wonderful writer.”
“Thanks, but I’m not.”
“You’re so talented.And you care so much about it.I know it’s frustrating, having setbacks like this.But it doesn’t mean you’re not good at what you do.You have to keep trying.”
“Yeah, well, I think I’ve done enough trying.Look, it’s fine.There are lots of people who aren’t good at what they love.If everybody got to live out their dreams, the world would be full of basketball players and influencers and professional cake tasters.I’ll always love books, but now I can, you know, grow up.Be a responsible, functioning adult.We can plan a future.”
In the dark, that next wordless stretch felt long.Bobby sounded confused—almost hurt—when he said, “We already have a future.”
“I know.”
