Page 45 of By the Book

They wanted to talk about the break-in and the diary. It was the same stuff Bobby and I had talked about, though, and we didn’t get anywhere new with it.

When Deputy Dahlberg gave us the go-ahead, we started cleaning. Indira got back from a day spent running errands, and we had to go through the whole thing again. And then once more when Fox arrived. My parents stayed upstairs. I wanted to think they were avoiding me, but more likely, they were simply oblivious. My mom would be editing her own writing, or reading for an anthology, or plumbing the depths of the human soul by imagining the craziest things a person could do. (Like wonder if her son was real—I mean, my God, she wrote an entire book about it.) If my dad hadn’t already turned Vivienne’s office into a shooting gallery, then he was probably cleaning his guns or researching guns or buying new guns. Sometimes I wished Talon Maverick would use a knife or a whip or a bow and arrow. Just once would be nice.

That was how we spent the rest of the day. Indira grilled chicken breasts and hamburgers for dinner, with some sort of spicy-sweet slaw on the side. I’ll tell you this: if you ever want to see the world’s skinniest boyeat, stop by sometime when Indira makes hamburgers. It’s like Keme is a lion, and he’s going through an entire family of gazelle. Millie thinks it’s cute, of course. By the time we were all ready to call it a night, we were covered in dirt and grime from wiping down shelves, handling old books, cleaning up fingerprint powder, and the general level of exertion that cleaning requires—which is why I prefer naps. Also, why I’m a serious advocate for sleep-cleaning. It’s like sleepwalking, only you clean (obviously). And the best part is if you aren’t a natural sleep-cleaner, there’s really nothing you can do about it except take another nap and hope for the best.

I showered. I got into my comfiest pair of joggers, plus this tee Bobby had given me that was simultaneously thick—like, you could tell the material was super good quality—and soft. It didn’t have any pictures or words on it. Nothing Atari-related, or Nintendo, or Xbox. (Not even Sega Dreamcast!) I mean, myGod, it wasgray.Bobby didn’t justify the pick. He didn’t explain. He just watched me try it on and said, “That looks really good on you.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was that.

I was under the covers, trying to read, wondering if there was anything in the Netflix Top 10 today that would be a cultural tragedy if I missed it, when I heard one of the floorboards squeak.

It was an old house. At night, when it settled, there were a lot of noises—beams and joists expanding and contracting. Plus, Keme was always sneaking around. And Millie was sure there were ghosts. (She was up to eighteen of them, by last count.) So, I only noticed the sound distantly; most of my brain was wondering if I’d dreamed up that dating show where people got matched based on their favorite tacos, or if that was a real thing.

Then there was a thud, and my dad said, “Ow.”

Some words went through my head. Some very loud words. And you’d only hear them on a taco-related dating show if it was on Netflix.

I focused on my book. Dashiell Hammett. My namesake. The man who had practically pioneered the noir genre—although Chandler, in many ways, was the one who had made the genre his own. And even Chandler had recognized Hammett’s influence. As he put it, Hammett “took murder out of the Venetian vase and dropped it into the alley.” If there’s a better sentence one mystery writer could write about another, I’d like to see it.

It was hard to focus, though, because that was when my mom said, “Be quiet or Dash will hear us.”

More of those loud words went through my head again.

No, I told myself. Do not give in. Don’t go see what they’re doing. Don’t go check on them. They’ve been holed up in theirroom all day because they’re totally self-absorbed. Let them do whatever they want to do. They probably want something to eat.

I opened my book again. I put my finger under the sentence I was supposed to be reading. I concentrated until I felt my eyes start to melt.

Downstairs, the front door opened. Then it closed again.

Fricking freaking frack.

Let them leave, I thought. Let them go do whatever they want. They’re adults. They’ll be fine.

Then I scrambled out of bed, grabbed my jacket, shoved my feet into my Mexico 66s, and sprinted after them.

By the time I got out of the house, they were in their RV, already pulling away. I grabbed my bike from the coach house and went after them. Fortunately, the RV was a behemoth, and they weren’t hard to keep up with.

I thought I knew where they were going—because it was where I would have gone, if I hadn’t promised Bobby otherwise. And when they cut into Hastings Rock, driving toward the water, it was confirmation. Sure enough, a few minutes later we turned down a street of beachfront properties. Vacation homes, mostly. Rentals.

The one they stopped in front of wasn’t much to look at, but a lot of the rentals on the coast could be that way. This one was a two-story frame structure with shake siding. It had big windows and a wraparound porch, and someone with a true passion for Hobby Lobby had decorated the front door with starfish and a fishing net and a wooden plank almost as tall as I was that had been painted with the word WELCOME. If you stayed here, you must have instantly known you’d picked the right cute, charming, nautical beach house, because the O in WELCOME had been painted in the shape of a seashell.

My parents parked and got out of their RV. They each held flashlights, and they started toward the house without a moment’s hesitation.

It’s a strange feeling, hoping your parents would be arrested and face the possibility of jail time. It was oddly paternal. This was probably how I’d feel if Bobby and I ever had kids—I mean, not that I was thinking about kids—not that I didn’twantkids—not that I’d even thought about it because we’d barely started dating and who knew if it was going to be serious, although if we did have kids, Bobby would have to be the biological dad, because let’s face it, he would make the world’s cutest babies—

Uh.

Anyway.

I watched them make their way toward the house as I pedaled closer, waiting for them to spot me. But God bless their little hearts, they didn’t turn around. Not even once.

By the time I reached the sidewalk and ditched the bike, I’d lost sight of my dad. My mom was prowling around the porch, moving the rocking chairs and lifting the welcome mat and poking around behind the welcome sign, all with the aid of flashlight so bright it was like she was carrying her own portable spotlight. Something for which the deputies would be grateful, I was sure, when we were inevitably prosecuted for this.

“Are you having some kind of breakdown?” I whispered furiously as I climbed the steps to the porch. “Is this a mid-life crisis? Did you take too much lithium when you checked yourself into the loony bin last time?”

“Dashiell!” My mom put a hand to her chest. “You scared me!”

I batted at her flashlight—mostly to keep her from blinding me with it. “Keep your voice down!” (Admittedly, I was channeling a bit of Millie myself by that point.) “And answer the question. What do you think you’re doing?”

---