18. Tallus

18

Tallus

“ S top looking at me like that, Kitty.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes. You. Do. I can feel your creepy gaze crawling up my neck like tiny spiders. It’s making me shiver. Do your puzzles, woman, and leave me alone.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The clairvoyant witch had been giving me the stink eye since she’d walked in the door thirty minutes ago. Her spidey senses must have gone haywire the second she saw my fret face. Even though I hadn’t spoken a word about what had transpired between Diem and me the previous night—it was not something I could share with my eighty-something-year-old coworker—she somehow knew the poor, tormented man was in the wind and wasn’t answering my calls or texts.

I’d woken up to an empty bed and had been second-guessing my life choices ever since. The previous night had been a clusterfuck of… I don’t know what.

Kitty must have sensed a shift in the atmosphere or read the truth in the stars or… fuck, I didn’t know how, but the woman’s awareness of all things was unnatural and a little spooky. I mean, how much did she see? Did she have X-ray vision? Had she watched Diem and I have sex? Oh, god, maybe she had. Eww.

My neck hairs prickled, and I snapped my attention to Kitty, who was staring again with that all-knowing look in her eyes. “Stop it.” I threw a pencil at her because I had no shame.

Kitty tsk ed, sighed heavily, and returned to her puzzle book.

“Witch,” I whispered under my breath.

It would be nice if I could get some work done and not have her mind-melding me or whatever she did to people. Ugh , I needed a latte so badly it hurt. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the fuzzies from my brain. My lack of sleep was catching up with me.

Our late-night stakeout at the slimy doctor’s was one thing, but Diem had unraveled right before my eyes, and I had been unable to walk away. Not when he was sharing for the first time ever . If I’d gotten two hours of sleep, that would be generous.

Forty-seven minutes until lunch, and I could skip out and grab some caffeine.

Forty-six.

Forty-five.

The blasted woman was looking again. I could feel it. “Kitty,” I warned.

“Help me with this one. Two words, sixteen letters. An uncomfortable, unwanted, or uneasy feeling that arises as a result of one’s actions.” She paused, then added, “Starts with a G.”

I slapped the counter and spun from the computer where I’d been trying to work. “I do not have a guilty conscience.”

“Tallus, love, you’re wearing your shame like a dirty shirt. I can smell it from here.”

“My shirt is not covered in shame. It’s clean. I took it fresh from my closet this morning.” I dramatically sniffed to prove it. “Downy fresh.”

“Shame.”

I growled and spun back to the computer. “They should have burned you at the stake in the 1600s.”

Kitty cackled. “Oh, sweetie. You’re starting to sound like him now too. All that growling. What did you do? You clearly upset the boy. I told you to tread carefully, but you didn’t listen. You’re dynamic and verbose, Tallus. Those are lovely qualities in a person, but they can overwhelm softhearted people like my cuddle bear. If you want a relationship with him—and don’t tell me you don’t—he needs a quiet, undemanding, unthreatening conversation where he has time to express himself properly. He does not need to be manipulated into something he isn’t ready for.”

“I’m not manipulating him, and believe me, we tried the conversation thing. Look where it got me. Wearing my stinky shame shirt.”

“You put him in an overwhelming situation.”

I blinked at the ceiling, praying for strength while processing my savant coworker’s words. How did the woman walk into the office and somehow know everything within five seconds? Was there a cosmic interference I was unaware of? Were their aliens sending out signals on the airwaves and Kitty was receiving them in exchange for eternal life?

“I know what I’m talking about, Tallus. Diem needs gentle handling. He likes you. I can tell. Baby steps. Don’t smother him.”

I removed my glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose, fighting exhaustion. “Kitty. My dear, sweet, immortal, prophetic Kitty. I had a late, late night, and I’m super-duper tired. Can we please play witch doctor later? I don’t want to discuss whatever you think you know—which is creepy accurate and disturbing on so many levels. Besides, Diem’s not ready for more conversation. He talked his fill last night. My guess is he met his word quota for this lifetime, and I won’t hear from him again. Ever. Trust me, listening to him finally speak was amazing and utterly painful at the same time. I tried to help. I didn’t want to hurt him more. If I failed, it was not on purpose.”

“He’s ready to talk again.”

I huffed a humorless laugh. “No. He’s not. You’re wrong. I’ve texted and called him a thousand times this morning because I’m the world’s most annoying asshole and hate being ignored, and guess what? He won’t answer.”

“He’s ready.”

Again, I spun to face my far too smug coworker. “And how do you know this? How, witch? How? In fact, how do you know any of this? I have told you nothing . Zip. Zilch. Nothing. You waltz in here and somehow have the gist of my entire night all figured out. Right down to the letter. I’m afraid to ask for details because you might give them to me.”

Kitty smirked, and I broke out in a panicked sweat.

“You scare me. Seriously. What am I thinking right now?” I narrowed my eyes and tried to block all thoughts from my mind, except a yawn hit me unexpectedly, and I couldn’t stifle it.

“You want a latte.”

“That’s not fair.” Growling again, I pointed a finger in her face. “But you’re spot on.”

Her face softened. “Sweetheart, Diem’s been sitting outside the building on the hood of his Jeep since this morning. He’s chain-smoking cigarettes even though he quit months ago. That’s how I know he’s been taken to his limits. And there’s only one reason he’d be camped out at headquarters.” She hitched her chin. “Because of you.”

Her words took a minute to sink in. I was on my feet in a flash, aiming for the door. “I’m taking an early lunch.”

“Don’t rush. I’ve got a handle on this place. Been here since the 1800s.”

“It was a joke,” I yelled as I flew out the door. “But I’m buying you a pointy hat for Christmas.”

***

I found Diem exactly as my nefarious coworker had described, sitting on the hood of his Jeep, smoking, a faraway look in his eyes. It was easily thirty-four degrees, and a wall of heat hit me in the face the second I exited the building. A haze of sunlight filtered through the thick city smog and reflected blindingly off every metal surface, making me squint.

Diem wore rugged jeans and a snug, plain black tee. Heels of his boots hooked on the front bumper, legs splayed, elbows on his knees, and with his head bowed, Diem stared at the ground with a cigarette, burned to nearly the filter, dangling between his fingers. He was misery personified.

Stupid clairvoyant Kitty was right. I had upset the boy. I may have trodden carefully, but not carefully enough. I’d pushed Diem beyond his limits, and he was paying the price for my selfish ignorance.

Approaching the troubled man, I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my cotton pants, aiming to appear less threatening. I stopped a few feet away, but he didn’t notice, so I cleared my throat to grab his attention.

Diem glanced up, face pale, eyes rimmed red, and the sclera threaded with tiny bloodshot veins. I got the sense Diem was not a man who ever cried. Heavy emotions would render anger, not tears. His eyelids were not puffy, but they were the eyes of someone who hadn’t slept all night.

The man was a wreck.

I motioned to the cigarette. “I guess I’m bad for your health, huh.”

He flashed his attention to the burning stick and flicked the butt away before brushing his hand over his pants like he’d gotten something unpleasant on his fingers. Diem sat straighter. He opened his mouth a few times, but no words came out.

I closed the distance and patted the spot beside him. “Mind if I join you?”

He grunted and shuffled over several inches. I took the hint and gave him plenty of space. No touching. We sat for a long time in silence. The late August sun baked us. Traffic zipped by in both directions. Exhaust filled the air. Horns honked. Pedestrians raced along the sidewalk with their food-truck hot dogs and takeout coffees, and men and women, young and old, ventured in and out of the headquarters building, ready to file one complaint or another.

Tension rolled off Diem in waves. His fists were balled so tight his knuckles were white. Twice, he reached for the pack of cigarettes he’d placed on the hood beside him, but he didn’t take one out.

From what I knew of the man, he would harbor plenty of self-loathing for caving to his cravings when under stress. At the moment, he seemed to be doing all he could to simply exist and stay in control.

Fuck, I hated myself. I’d done this. After his confession, I’d thought I was doing a good thing. Showing him he was wrong. Showing him I wasn’t afraid of his history. Showing him he was a good man who deserved good things.

But I’d failed.

After an extended silence, I tried to figure out the best way to break the ice without completely disregarding the previous night and pretending it never happened. At the same time, I didn’t want to shine a light on it and ask if Diem wanted to discuss his feelings. Of course he didn’t.

“I’d kill for a latte,” I said into the faux silence of the city.

Diem shifted. I felt his gaze but continued staring at the busy street. “How long do you have?” he asked, his voice a quiet mumble.

“However long I need. Kitty’s got things covered, and if I don’t… come back with good news, she might cast a spell on me or something.”

Without another word, Diem hopped down, dug keys from his pants pocket, and grunted. Get in , the noise said. I didn’t tease him. I got in. Diem drove a few blocks to a café and parked in the crowded lot. The lunch rush had hit the city. In silent agreement, we got out and went inside. We took an available booth near the window, ordered food—and a latte for me, Diem preferred his Dr Pepper—and ate lunch together.

No words were exchanged except to relay our needs to the server. Over a half hour, Diem’s anxiety decreased. His muscles let go. His shoulders came down from his ears. His jaw relaxed. He stared surreptitiously for long periods of time while we ate—although I made sure not to meet his eyes or draw attention to it. I sensed he was still processing.

When lunch was over, Diem picked up the tab. Before he could stand or walk away, I reached for his hand, holding it lightly. He stilled and stared at the connection. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t startle at the contact. His breathing slowed, his entire body on alert. It was like his anxiety was waiting around the corner, wondering if it needed to come back. Is that what I did to him?

“For the record, Guns. This doesn’t count as a date. You need to ask me out properly if you want that to happen. And when it does, I want to go somewhere where they serve steak and a decent bottle of wine. Preferably when I don’t have to race back to work when I’m done.”

Diem seemed to consider my words and gave an almost indiscernible nod.

I let go of his hand, and we returned to the Jeep. He drove us back to headquarters and parked on the street. Before I got out, he said, “Your case.”

“We can drop it. I know it’s stupid.”

“We’re breaking into Hilty’s office tonight. We need to find out what those files are about.”

I sighed and remembered what Kitty said about manipulation. “This whole thing is nonsense, D. I think, subconsciously, I wanted an excuse to hang out with you.”

He remained quiet for several seconds before saying, “It’s not nonsense. I have a bad feeling I can’t shake. I want to see those files.”

“Really?”

Another grunt and nod.

“Okay. Tonight?”

“Meet me at the office when you get off work.”

I agreed and closed the door. Diem drove down the street, and I stood on the sidewalk for a long time, wondering if we’d ever find a proper connection or if my bold personality and kindly-meant pressure would continuously push him away.

***

Shortly past sundown, Diem pulled the Jeep into the shared parking lot belonging to the pharmacy and shawarma restaurant across the street from Dr. Hilty’s office building. The drugstore closed at nine. The street-facing windows were dark, and steel safety grates were pulled down for the night. The shawarma restaurant was open for another hour, but its street-facing windows showed a distinct lack of diners. We were long past the dinner hour, and business was not booming for the quaint family-owned establishment.

Since we were planning to partake in a touch of illegal B&E—I should not have been as excited about this as I was—Diem had wanted to wait for the cloak of darkness. He parked beside a green dumpster and aimed the nose of the Jeep so it faced the two-story strip mall across the street, then he killed the engine.

The bookstore beside Hilty’s office was closed, and the supplements store on the other side displayed dark windows. Someone had forgotten to turn off the lit-up sign in the window that announced We Deliver.

Diem, dressed in black jeans, a black shirt, and a black beanie, pulled on a pair of black gloves as he scanned the street in both directions. I was less prepared since I’d come from the office. He should have suggested I run home and change.

I’d shown up at Diem’s at six, and the man hadn’t been any chattier than earlier in the day. Few words had passed between us, and he’d gone out of his way to avoid eye contact, grunting and grumbling as much, if not more than usual. In the past three hours, Diem had managed an accumulated ten words. We’ll leave at nine , and There’s leftover Chinese in the fridge .

Honestly, it was nice to simply exist in the same room and not worry that he was struggling alone. Maybe he appreciated the company too. I couldn’t tell. He’d taken a handful of breaks to sneak outside and smoke. Each time, he seemed ashamed.

Now, as Diem scanned and surveyed the street, I thought it prudent to break the silence and get a rundown of exactly how we were going to make this happen. “What’s the game plan?”

“Stay here. Keep watch. Text if there’s a problem. I’ll be back in ten minutes tops.” Diem reached for the door handle, but I snagged his shirt sleeve to stop him.

“Whoa. Wait. What the hell? You’re going without me? I thought we were a team.”

“We’re not.”

“I thought I was in charge. My case, remember?”

“Too dangerous.”

I scoffed. “I happen to like danger. It’s why I was drawn to detective work to begin with.”

“You’re not a detective.”

“It was a joke, Diem. Come on. Are you serious?”

“You’re not coming. This is illegal, and you could lose your job.”

“So could you.”

“Tallus.” My name came out on a growl through clenched teeth. Diem closed his eyes, chewed for a second on whatever else he was going to say, then, checking his tone, added, “We need a lookout. That’s just as important.”

I pff ed and crossed my arms. “Bullshit. You’re relegating me because you don’t trust me.”

“It’s not… Tallus…” Another growl. The bear was agitated, but I didn’t give a fuck.

“It’s not fair.”

“I’m not being an asshole for the sake of it. We need a lookout.”

“Then sit your miserable ass down and be a goddamn lookout.” I tugged my tie loose, pulled it over my head, and tossed it on the dash. I unbuttoned my cuffs and rolled them, shoving them to my elbows. “I’ve got this. My case, my rules, my risk. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me, and I’m perfectly capable of doing the dirty work. Now give me your gloves.”

“You don’t—”

“Diem. Gloves. Now.”

He shed the gloves and passed them over with a snarl in his lip.

I snarled back and put them on. They were miles too big and would compromise my dexterity, but I pretended they weren’t.

“Okay.” I surveyed the street and tried to crack my knuckles to seem tougher. “Lockpicking kit? Where is it?”

“At home. The front door is alarmed. You can’t go through that way.”

“Oh.” I frowned at the building. “Back door?”

“Alarmed.”

My shoulders slumped. “How do I get in?”

“Window.”

“They aren’t alarmed?”

“Nope. Not all of them.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Because I don’t want to go to fucking jail, and I had a lot of time on my hands today, so I did some recon.”

“Oh. What about when I’m inside? Are there motion sensors?”

“Not in Hilty’s office.”

“Lobby? Waiting area?”

“Yes.”

“So I need to go in a window?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“His office.”

“But… it’s on the second floor.”

“Yep.”

I stared at Diem. “How…”

“There’s a drainpipe. It held my weight, so it will hold yours no problem.”

“A drainpipe?”

“Yep.”

“I have to climb a drainpipe to reach his window, jimmy it open, and squeeze inside all without falling and maiming myself?”

“Yep. Good luck.”

I stared at the dark building across the street for a long time, then down at the new, beige, designer dress shirt I’d worn twice, the cotton trousers I’d spent over a hundred dollars on, and the only nice pair of loafers I owned. The ones with threadbare soles.

In a huff, I tore off the gloves and threw them at Diem. “Fine. You go have all the fun, and I’ll wait here and be the lookout .” The word tasted bitter and sarcastic on my tongue.

Diem hesitated, turning the gloves over in his hands a few times, but in the end, he donned them and left me alone in the Jeep. At the corner of the strip mall, Diem vanished.

I scanned the stupid street, feeling useless. All was quiet. Pape Avenue had regular evening traffic, but nothing noteworthy. No cops waited in the shadows. No pedestrians nosed around, observing us breaking the law. There wasn’t even a dog to bark at something suspicious.

I grew bored in an instant, and boredom punctuated my extreme fatigue. When I couldn’t take it anymore and fought every second to keep my eyes open, I took out my phone, figuring I’d goof around to keep myself awake.

No texts awaited. No emails. Not even a message from my mother checking in—she did that often.

Memphis was pissed about his canceled appointment with the psychic, so he’d not talked to me in over twenty-four hours. Considering we usually text-chatted several times a day, it was a big deal. I decided to break the ice for lack of anything else to do.

Tallus: You still mad?

It took almost five minutes for him to respond. Five minutes where, with heavy eyelids, I rested my head against the side window. Five minutes where I browsed my socials and randomly checked the street in both directions so when Diem returned, I could say I’d done my duty.

Five minutes fighting to stay awake.

I startled and jolted upright when my phone buzzed. Good grief. I was never going to make it at this rate. Diem needed to hurry the fuck up.

Memphis: Yes, I’m mad. You’re cramping my style, and you know I don’t like anyone telling me what to do. Bitch, she’s a psychic, not a serial killer.

Tallus: We don’t know that. I’m looking out for you.

Memphis: Bullshit. You’re looking out for YOU. You think I’m an idiot?

Tallus: One more day. Please.

If we didn’t find anything worthwhile this evening, I’d pull the plug and admit defeat on this nonsense case.

Memphis: Tell me one thing, and if you lie, I’ll know. How long have you been boning your stalker?

I stared at the question. Did I admit Diem and I had been fucking around for months? Did I admit that I wanted to date the guy? After what Diem had revealed the previous night, I wasn’t sure it would happen. Besides, Memphis wouldn’t understand.

Tallus: So what if I was?

No response.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

My eyelids drooped, and still, my best friend remained petulantly silent.

Sometime later, the distant sound of a car door slamming jolted me upright. Fuck. I’d fallen asleep. I glanced at my phone and saw Memphis had finally texted back, but before I could read the message, movement caught my eye.

Someone was parked outside the doctor’s building.

Someone—a familiar woman—got out of an older model Caprice and headed to the front door of Hilty’s office building, purse slung over a shoulder as she marched like someone on a mission.

“Fuck.” I fumbled, almost dropped my phone, and located Diem’s number, hitting Call since I had no time to type a warning.

He answered with a typical grunt.

“Get out!” I hissed as the woman shuffled through her keys while standing at the main door. “It’s the receptionist. Soap Opera Sally or whatever the fuck her name was. She’s here. She’s on her way inside.”

Diem made a strangled noise in his throat and barked, “Fucking stall her,” before hanging up.

I hopped from the Jeep and ran before figuring out what to say. This would all be over if she recognized me. My sluggish brain struggled to switch over to acting mode, but I found a fake Scottish accent, the only suitable disguise I could muster in less than ten seconds. “Ma’am… Ma’am. Excuse me, Ma’am.” I waved, frantic for her to notice.

Hilty’s receptionist whipped around, eyes wide and haunted as I dodged traffic on Pape Avenue and crossed the street. The woman hugged her purse to her chest, and I didn’t miss how she fixed her keys between her fingers so she could use them as a weapon. Perfect. Who was I but a strange man approaching her in an empty parking lot at night. Great. I risked a knife to the kidneys at this rate.

Sticking to the shadows to keep my face hidden, I held my hands aloft, placating her so she would see someone harmless. Scrambling for something to say, drawing on all my high school and college improv classes, I pointed at her rusted-out vehicle.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, I just… When you pulled into the lot, I noticed that you had… a shimmy in your back tire. Maybe it’s a flat or something. There was definitely a wobble.” I chuckled to break the tension. “I don’t speak cars. It didn’t look good.”

The woman glanced behind me at the parking lot with a worried expression, but her shoulders came away from her ears, so she was buying it. So far, she didn’t seem to recognize me.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was across the street.” I pointed at the Jeep. “Waiting for my girlfriend to finish her shift at the restaurant. It looked concerning. The tire.”

The woman relaxed another few degrees as a frown formed. “Figures. It’s my kid’s car. He never takes care of it. I didn’t notice a shimmy while driving. Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be. I mean, it’s dark, so maybe I’m wrong.” I kept my distance, ensuring she stayed calm while also keeping an eye out for any signs of Diem. “Just being a Good Samaritan. Maybe you should have it checked out.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“No problem.” I gave her my award-winning smile, then thumbed over my shoulder. “Did you want me to have a peek? If it’s flat, I have an air pump. It could at least get you as far as the next shop.”

I had no such thing, but I doubted she would take me up on it. Any smart woman would know better.

She hesitated, smiled, and shook her head. “It’s all right. I don’t live far, but thank you.”

“No problem.”

That was it. That was all the time I could squeak out of the moment. I hoped Diem had vacated the premises.

I went across the street, glancing back to find Hilty’s receptionist gone. Standing beside the Jeep, I scanned the night, seeking signs of Diem as worry turned my stomach upside down. If he was caught, it would be my fault for falling asleep and not warning him sooner.

A minute passed, then another. As fret stirred my gut, a dark form appeared at the corner of the strip mall. He moved fast, considering his size, but instead of coming directly for me, Diem aimed for the streetlights half a block down and crossed there. I didn’t know why, but when he got closer, I noticed his arms were loaded with a stack of files. I had no doubt they were the same ones we’d seen Hilty take from Rowena’s the previous night.

“Great,” I said when he was closer. “So not just B&E but theft too. My mother would say you’re a bad influence.”

Diem grunted and thrust the pile into my arms. “We’re not stealing the files. Put them in the Jeep.”

“Oh, I see. Was Dr. Hilty inside? Did he say we could have them?”

Diem deadpanned.

I winked to take the sting out of my words, and my eyes caught on a dark smear on Diem’s forearm. “Whoa. Is that blood? Are you bleeding? Did you cut yourself?”

Diem scowled at the injury, muttered something like “It’s fine,” and tugged the beanie off his head. He scrubbed his shorn scalp and seemed indecisive. The man looked like he’d come out of a sauna. The bit of hair he had was soaked, and beads of sweat trickled down his temples. His hands shook.

“Give me a minute.” He unearthed a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his jeans. Removing one, he tossed the rest of the pack on top of the stack of files and growled, “Do not give these back to me under any circumstance.”

He marched away, rounding the corner of the shawarma restaurant as he lit up.

I pocketed the cigarettes—I didn’t have a death wish, so if the guy wanted them back, he would get them—and got in the passenger side of the Jeep while I waited for the brooding man to return.

Across the street, Hilty’s receptionist rushed from the building carrying a box and a full garbage bag. She glanced warily along the street in both directions as though worried the stranger who’d approached her earlier might be stalking somewhere nearby. Satisfied, she aimed for a nearby dumpster and tossed the bag and box inside.

Rushing to the car, she popped the truck, grabbed two more garbage bags, scanned the street again, and flew back to the dumpster to dispose of them.

As she returned to the car at a much slower pace, she must have remembered I’d mentioned being parked across the street.

She froze, her gaze landing on Diem’s Jeep. Even from a distance, I could tell the woman was ready to run for her life. Like paralyzed prey, she didn’t move, squinting into the dark as though trying to tell if I was watching.

I offered a friendly wave, but the windows were tinted, so I didn’t think she noticed. With one last scan of the street, she hustled to the outdated car, quickly inspected the back passenger tire, kicked it a few times for good measure, and got in.

She was gone before Diem got back.

We didn’t return to the office right away. Once Diem was calmer and the air conditioning had cooled us both, we went through the files in the vacant parking lot across from Hilty’s office.

“I have to put them back tonight,” Diem said when I suggested we take them with us and go through them at our leisure. “I’d have looked at them while I was inside, but then you called.”

“What are they?” I scrutinized the contents of the first folder.

“Client files. At least, that’s what I gleaned. I didn’t get a chance to thoroughly look at them.”

“There are a lot more than I thought.” At a guess, there were at least a dozen.

Diem grunted.

His forearm was coated in a layer of drying blood. It continuously drew my attention under the dim interior light of the Jeep, but when I suggested he let me take a look, he told me no—rather, he snapped that he was fine. I let it go. I needed to choose my battles.

We were both exhausted, running on little or no sleep. After the previous night’s drama, I couldn’t blame Diem for being on edge. Despite his clear inability to cope with all that had transpired, he’d still agreed to do more investigating.

The task ahead was daunting.

We agreed to divide the pile and snap pictures of the pages inside each folder so we could read them the following day when we were more alert and our brains were sharper.

A few things stood out when we started picking through the individual files. One, they were all photocopies, not originals. Two, all of them had a sticky note attached to the front with a personality summary written in cursive pen. And three, of the twenty-some-odd files, close to half were marked with a Sharpie, bold letters spelling a single word:

DECEASED.