Page 49 of By the Book

He handed her the gun, and they headed for the stairs.

Maybe they’d shoot each other, I thought. It would be one of those headlines you couldn’t believe were real.Mystery writer couple slain in hilarious accident. Son can’t be reached for comment because he’s at Disney World.

Of course, I followed them.

The second floor had a large loft that looked down on the main floor, with two doors leading off from it. The first led into another bathroom. And the second—

When my dad touched the doorknob, someone screamed.

I jumped.

My mom stumbled backward.

My dad flailed that bleeping gun around like he’d never had one single gun-safety course in his entire life.

“What the heck?” my dad said.

(Talon Maverick never says heck.)

The screaming continued. It sounded like a woman, and it was strangely muffled. There were words in it, I couldn’t make them out. My dad tried the doorknob again. It opened, and we stepped into a bedroom on the other side. It had the usual beach-y decorations. The bedding was a mess—it looked like someone had slept poorly, if at all—but I didn’t see a suitcase. Had Colleen appropriated two rooms for herself?

All of that flashed through my mind in an instant before my focus was drawn to the far side of the room. The screaming was coming from inside a closet, and it was easy to see why whoever was in there might not be happy: a dresser had been moved in front of the door to block it. That trick looked familiar from my own experience at the library not so long ago.

“Hello?” my dad called. “Can you hear me?”

Now, through the closet door, the words were audible: “Help! She trapped me in here! You’ve got to let me out of here! Help!”

It was definitely a woman’s voice, and if I’d been a betting man, I would have wagered it was Colleen. But if it was Colleen, then who wasshe?

“We’re going to open the door,” my dad said. “I’m warning you: I’m armed, so don’t try anything.”

Then he waved his hand at me.

“What?” I said.

“Move the dresser,” my dad said.

I almost said,By myself?But then I remembered my mom’s unintentionally devastating comment from the porch—If you can—and decided this was my chance. I squared my shoulders. I took a deep breath. I thought manly thoughts—like, what was Bobby thinking about when he lifted weights? Probably about how to execute each rep, because Bobby was nothing if not a sucker for perfect form. I thought about hunting, uh, a mountainlion, and building a fire, and—oh, making s’mores would actually be super nice—

“What are you waiting for?” my mom said.

“Do you want to help me?”

“I’m covering you,” she said with a totally straight face. And then she showed me my dad’s little throw-down piece, in case I’d forgotten.

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I’m a healthy adult male. I exercise. Kind of. I’ve got muscles. I mean, you can’t see them, but they’re there. That’s what keeps my arms from falling off, presumably. But I’ve always favored a lean look, and I didn’t want to bulk up too much—I mean, I wasn’t a meathead, and—

“Dashiell!” my mom snapped.

“Is everything okay out there?” the woman in the closet asked.

“I’m doing it,” I snapped back. “Everyone keep your pants on.”

The dresser wasn’t that heavy. I moved it without any problem. I did kind of wish Bobby had been there. And that I’d been wearing a tank top. And then I could have just shrugged after I finished moving it, like it was no big deal.

“Good job, kiddo,” my dad said. “God, Patty, he’s turning into such a man.”

And that was it. There went all my self-esteem and self-image and sexuality, right down the drain.

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