I’m shocked. Appalled. Terrified. Sickened. Many different things that are so overwhelming I’m suddenly sick to my stomach.
I lower my hand from my mouth. “You think Dylan shot her?” I don’t even know why I say it, other than that I can’t forget how strange and creepy he was acting and how Delilah had signs of abuse on her.
“I’m not sure, since I was living downstairs with… someone at the time, but it could have been a lot of things. Anything from a drug deal to the simple fact that maybe Dylan’s gun went off. But no one was found in the remains of the fire, so no one was hurt,” he says, his voice cracking at the end. “And even though I hate to say it, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Delilah was living on the streets somewhere high or… even working as a prostitute.”
I suck back the tears threatening to spill out as I rest my cheek against my bed. “Dylan had a gun?” My voice is just a whisper.
“Yeah, at least he did right before I moved out, which was only a couple of weeks before the fire,” he says. “But I don’t really think he’d do anything with it. I think he just had it to make himself seem tougher than he was.” He doesn’t sound that convincing, though, and I’m not even sure he believes himself.
I realize how much we’ve been talking about death for the last few minutes and how that’s probably not the best thing for him. No matter how much I want to get answers, the last thing I ever want to do is make him hurt more than he already does.
“This conversation has really gotten dark, hasn’t it?” I ask and I take his silence as agreement. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Like what?” He sounds depressed, which pretty much matches how I feel.
But I can handle being sad. It’s him I’m worried about. So I try to think of something cheerful to say, but I’m having a hard time. “How about work? How’s that going?”
“Okay, I guess,” he replies, and I can tell by the deflated tone of his voice that I failed in thinking of a better topic. “I mean, it’s painting houses, so it’s not too complicated, and the hours are flexible, so that’s good.”
“But you don’t like doing it?”
“Not really,” he admits. “It’s not really my thing.”
“What is your thing?” I ask, really wanting to know what he thinks about the future, because he rarely ever talks about it. “You said earlier that you wanted to paint and draw. Is that what you want to do? Be an artist?”
“Maybe. Although if I did, I’d have to accept that I’d more than likely be poor for the rest of my life and that I’d also probably have to have a side job.”
“Does it really matter, though? If you’re doing something you love?”
“I guess not, but being poor would sort of suck, at least that’s what Lexi always used to say.”
The lengthiest pause passes between us at the mention of Lexi. He never, ever talks about her. I can tell that it was completely accidental and that he probably wants to take it back. Dammit, this conversation is really turning into a depression-fest. I need to find a way to salvage it somehow.
“Do you think you’ll ever go back to school?” I ask, trying to casually skip over the topic.
“I already told you, maybe one day.” His voice is uneven and I can tell he’s on the verge of crying. “I mean, I used to think about it a lot, but I don’t know… it’d be really real, you know.”
“But sometimes real is good.” I pause as I hear the front door open. Moments later my door opens and Lea sticks her head in. A week ago she cut her hair to her chin and she always wears it down now. It looks good, but right now it’s wet, like she’s been swimming in the indoor pool at our apartment complex. But she’s dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, not really swimming attire, since usually she just goes in her swimming suit.
“Hey,” she says, looking flushed as she steps inside my room. “I brought some takeout from that Italian restaurant if you want some. It’s in the kitchen.” Lea’s been hanging out at this restaurant down on the corner of Bralford and Main a lot and is always bringing home food with her. I wonder if it has to do with whomever she’s dating.
“Hey, can you hang on a second?” I ask Quinton.
“Yeah, sure.” He almost sounds relieved to have a break from talking.
“Thanks.” I move the phone away from my mouth, roll onto my back, and say to Lea, “Sure, but can I ask you something?”
Her expression fills with wariness. “Yeah, as long as it’s not more accusations about me secretly dating some guy.”
“It’s not.” I sit up on the bed and swing my legs over the edge, putting my feet onto the floor. “I just want to know why your hair’s wet.”
She shrugs nonchalantly, combing her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know. Maybe it was raining.”
I glance at the window, noting the glass is dry, and so is the grass down below. “It doesn’t look like it’s rained.” I return my attention to her. “And how do you not know if it was raining when you just walked in from outside?”
“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. I’m a pretty oblivious person.” She glances at the phone in my hand. “Who are you talking to?”
“Quinton.”
“Well, I’ll leave you alone, then.” Her lips curve into a smile; she’s pleased she has an easy escape from my excessive questioning.
“Don’t think this conversation is over,” I call out as she walks out of the room with a skip to her walk. “I’m going to find out what you’re keeping from—”
She shuts the door, cutting me off, and I put the phone back to my ear, dumbfounded. “Sorry about that,” I say. “But she’s definitely acting weird.”
“Yeah, I definitely think it’s detective time,” he says, his mood seeming to lift ever so slightly. “Go grab that pencil and paper and follow her.”
“I wish I would have followed her earlier,” I tell him. “She just came home with her hair drenched and she says she has no idea why.”
“Maybe she went swimming?” he suggests. “That seems logical, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, maybe.” I lie back down on my bed and prop my feet up on the wall. “But she didn’t have her bathing suit on. And besides, if she had gone swimming, wouldn’t she have just said so?”