all during the few years that I knew her.” I flop down on the bed on my stomach. “She said she was missing and I just want—need to know if she’s okay. And I was wondering if maybe you knew.”
“If Delilah is okay?”
“Yeah, or maybe where she could be, possibly.”
Silence takes over the line and my heart squeezes inside my chest with the fear that maybe he does know something and it’s really, really bad.
“I don’t really remember much.” He eventually speaks with hesitation. “Other than the fire was started intentionally and…” He swallows hard. “A gunshot was heard right before it happened.”
“Gunshot?” My eyes widen and I cover my mouth as I start to breathe loudly.
“Yeah, and it came from… God, this is so hard to talk about.” He gradually exhales. “It came from our old apartment.”
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
“If Delilah is okay?”
“Yeah, or maybe where she could be, possibly.”
Silence takes over the line and my heart squeezes inside my chest with the fear that maybe he does know something and it’s really, really bad.
“I don’t really remember much.” He eventually speaks with hesitation. “Other than the fire was started intentionally and…” He swallows hard. “A gunshot was heard right before it happened.”
“Gunshot?” My eyes widen and I cover my mouth as I start to breathe loudly.
“Yeah, and it came from… God, this is so hard to talk about.” He gradually exhales. “It came from our old apartment.”
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
Similar Books
