headed by a date in bold font. The date on the first entry was from seven years ago. I scrolled down to the final page in the document. The last entry was dated six and a half years ago.
I returned to the beginning of the document and started reading, stopped after the first paragraph. The notes dealt with mob violence as depicted in films.
The thrill drained out of me as quick as a blown circuit.
“Not what you were looking for?” Devon asked.
The other file titles didn’t look half as hopeful.
GR8PRT.
BMB.
TWRP.
DEADANI.
And others that looked more like personalized license plates than computer files. Of course, I checked the DEADANI file. A quick reading of the first short entry told me it was a story about poachers up state. Scrolling down a couple entries, I learned Doug had single handedly exposed a group of hunters killing all sorts of animals off season. But the dates on the opening entries, like the MOBVIOLENCE03 file, were nearly seven years old.
The file titled BMB looked like BOMB to me. I opened the document, found another dated entry from just over six years ago. What I read had nothing to do with bombs, but was no less disturbing. BMB was Doug’s shorthand for black market baby. The first couple entries detailed his investigation into an illegal adoption ring in Port Huron, which was on the other side of the state.
Frustrated, I returned to the top of the file list and opened each one in turn to check the date of the first entry and read a few lines. Every set of notes started at least six years ago. But according to Autumn, Doug had moved to Hawthorne and started working at the high school five years ago, and they married a year later. All these stories were from his old journalism days.
“Why would you keep a bunch of old files on a flash drive attached to your key chain, yet have next to nothing on your home computer?”
“Are you asking me?”
I pulled at my hair. “Another dead end for the great detective. Can you believe I used to make a living at this?”
“Are you asking me?”
“It wasn’t that long ago, either. A year, maybe, since my last case, before I got yanked back to Hawthorne.” I spun on Devon and jabbed a finger at him. “Why the hell am I still here?”
“So you are asking me?”
I shook my head. “Sorry. Just venting.”
Devon rolled his chair back into place. “I still think you owe me a singing lesson.”
His mention of singing made me think of the High Note . I wondered if Sheila would go ahead and open the bar without me. I never officially said I wasn’t going to make it tonight, though I think it was clear nonetheless.
I scanned the room for a clock and found the time on the chest of a foot-tall R2-D2 perched on Devon’s nightstand. According to R2 it was almost opening time.
“I appreciate your help, Dev.”
His focus was locked on the computer screen. He waved a hand. “Sure. I got to get back to this.”
From his computer speakers came a high-pitched battle cry and the ring of clashing swords.
“I’m sorry about the lessons. But if there is anything else you need—”
“Hey, Rid,” Devon said, still mesmerized by his monitor. “Take your guilt to someone who cares.”
Devon’s Mom caught me on the way out, wearing a worried frown.
“Did you and Devon have a disagreement?”
“No, ma’am. Thank you for having me.”
“Any time, Ridley.” She wiped her hands with a red and white checkered dishtowel. “I’m terribly sorry about your parents.”
I never knew what to say to this. “Thank you” didn’t sound right. Thanks for being sorry? Usually, I answered with a sigh, shrug, and nod, like saying, Yep, that’s the way life goes. Which was bullshit. For most people life’s obstacles did not include the murder of their parents.
This time, I just said what I felt.
“Me too.”
Chapter 9
Mrs. Whitegard got me thinking about my parents, which got me thinking about the High Note . The next thing I knew, I was pulling
I returned to the beginning of the document and started reading, stopped after the first paragraph. The notes dealt with mob violence as depicted in films.
The thrill drained out of me as quick as a blown circuit.
“Not what you were looking for?” Devon asked.
The other file titles didn’t look half as hopeful.
GR8PRT.
BMB.
TWRP.
DEADANI.
And others that looked more like personalized license plates than computer files. Of course, I checked the DEADANI file. A quick reading of the first short entry told me it was a story about poachers up state. Scrolling down a couple entries, I learned Doug had single handedly exposed a group of hunters killing all sorts of animals off season. But the dates on the opening entries, like the MOBVIOLENCE03 file, were nearly seven years old.
The file titled BMB looked like BOMB to me. I opened the document, found another dated entry from just over six years ago. What I read had nothing to do with bombs, but was no less disturbing. BMB was Doug’s shorthand for black market baby. The first couple entries detailed his investigation into an illegal adoption ring in Port Huron, which was on the other side of the state.
Frustrated, I returned to the top of the file list and opened each one in turn to check the date of the first entry and read a few lines. Every set of notes started at least six years ago. But according to Autumn, Doug had moved to Hawthorne and started working at the high school five years ago, and they married a year later. All these stories were from his old journalism days.
“Why would you keep a bunch of old files on a flash drive attached to your key chain, yet have next to nothing on your home computer?”
“Are you asking me?”
I pulled at my hair. “Another dead end for the great detective. Can you believe I used to make a living at this?”
“Are you asking me?”
“It wasn’t that long ago, either. A year, maybe, since my last case, before I got yanked back to Hawthorne.” I spun on Devon and jabbed a finger at him. “Why the hell am I still here?”
“So you are asking me?”
I shook my head. “Sorry. Just venting.”
Devon rolled his chair back into place. “I still think you owe me a singing lesson.”
His mention of singing made me think of the High Note . I wondered if Sheila would go ahead and open the bar without me. I never officially said I wasn’t going to make it tonight, though I think it was clear nonetheless.
I scanned the room for a clock and found the time on the chest of a foot-tall R2-D2 perched on Devon’s nightstand. According to R2 it was almost opening time.
“I appreciate your help, Dev.”
His focus was locked on the computer screen. He waved a hand. “Sure. I got to get back to this.”
From his computer speakers came a high-pitched battle cry and the ring of clashing swords.
“I’m sorry about the lessons. But if there is anything else you need—”
“Hey, Rid,” Devon said, still mesmerized by his monitor. “Take your guilt to someone who cares.”
Devon’s Mom caught me on the way out, wearing a worried frown.
“Did you and Devon have a disagreement?”
“No, ma’am. Thank you for having me.”
“Any time, Ridley.” She wiped her hands with a red and white checkered dishtowel. “I’m terribly sorry about your parents.”
I never knew what to say to this. “Thank you” didn’t sound right. Thanks for being sorry? Usually, I answered with a sigh, shrug, and nod, like saying, Yep, that’s the way life goes. Which was bullshit. For most people life’s obstacles did not include the murder of their parents.
This time, I just said what I felt.
“Me too.”
Chapter 9
Mrs. Whitegard got me thinking about my parents, which got me thinking about the High Note . The next thing I knew, I was pulling
Similar Books
