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My eyes scan his expression even as my heart rate increases. “What are you talking about?”
Jesse is prone to bending reality when it comes to me. He tells his own version of events, inserting thoughts and feelings into my words that were never there, minimizing and maximizing events to his choosing. But he never outright lies. And definitely not about anyone else. A sick sense of dread starts to creep up on me as my mind races, trying to put the pieces together.
“So, you only snoop on me, huh? Big mistake. You’re too busy running around with hearts in your eyes to care about your own safety? Word’s out all over the Frosty Pint. It’s all they can talk about. Google him and his mom and see what you find out.” Jesse straightens up again, thrusting his shoulders back and smoothing down the front of his jacket. It’s meant to make him look macho, I’m sure, but the whole effect makes him look like a barnyard rooster. “And maybe, if you beg, I’ll take you back. Show you what a real man is. Just make sure you take a few showers and get checked first. I’m gonna need a clean bill of health before I go there again.”
I’m horrified as a woman behind us in the line scrunches up her face into a sour expression and steps backward.
Lowering my voice, I spit out, “I can’t imagine ever being that desperate. Why don’t you hold your breath while you wait?”
I hope I sound tougher than I feel. As it stands, my knees tremble, and I start to lose my grip on the bottom package, an antique porcelain doll. No matter how much bubble wrap I crammed in that box, I’m not certain it will survive a straight drop onto the tile. Nor will I survive that kind of embarrassment in front of Jesse. Hefting it up, I grip it tighter and shoot laser beams at my ex with my steely glare. How dare he speak to me this way in a public place? Despite its bustling art culture and having a state park and a ski resort close by, Frostvale is still a small town. I don’t want this conversation with my ex to get back to my parents or my sisters.
The woman at the counter calls for the next customer before I finish testing the limits of my fingertip dexterity, and I could cry with relief. I stride to her quickly, hoping to get my transactions finished before Jesse is done with his. My thoroughness this morning pays off, and everything checks out fine. I have more than enough time to pay and make it back into my car before Jesse mails his shipping envelope. My hands shake as I put the key in the ignition, and I sit in silence for a moment, leaning back on the headrest with my eyes closed.
While the engine idles, I find myself thinking over and over again about what his careless words inside implied. I’m happy with Weston—happier than I have ever been. And I’d hate to let anything Jesse says or does come between us. After all, his motivations only serve himself. But his suggestion that I do the research on my own gives me pause. I mean, why tell me to do it if I’m not going to find anything?
With my heart thumping behind my ribcage, I find a safe place to pull over. There’s no way I can wait until I get home for this. Besides, Weston will be there. What am I supposed to say when I jump on the laptop that he refurbished for me?Hey, just thought I’d do a background check on you. You know, the one I should have done before I kissed you in front of a dumpster?
I fumble my phone out of my purse and tentatively type “Weston Langmore” into the search engine. Before hitting send, I take a breath, considering whether or not I should do this. Weston is a good guy, and I already have feelings for him. But I’ve chosen wrong before. Maybe there was something I didn’t see. Maybe he’s a bad decision waiting to happen. Reluctantly, I hit enter and wait.
Nothing of value crops up. His Facebook page, unused for the last three years, is the only result that actually has anything to do with him. Knowing him better now, I’m not surprised by that. There’s a sixty-year-old Weston Langmore in Montana who is apparently an accomplished Equestrian and Livestock Veterinarian, but other than that? Zilch. Nothing. His lack of presence is a little odd in and of itself until I consider how private of a person he is. It would be stranger if he did have a well-kept Instagram page or any social media presence at all. He’s just not into that kind of thing.
I rack my brain for anything that Weston may have lied to me about, any shadows or closed doors in our conversations so far. And then it hits me—he’s always evasive when we talk about his mother. He says that he owes her, but never says why. He makes offhand allusions to things being unpleasant in the past but never gives specifics. With a shaky breath, I try searching for “Gail Langmore” instead.
Gail is a more common name, so there are significantly more results this time around. As a final shot in the dark, I try “Gail Langmore Murder.” Something pops up in black and white on the screen that gives me pause and turns my stomach. A local news article from almost a decade ago. Not big enough to show up on a national website, but just salacious enough to land on the web page for KSTP.Local Woman Hospitalized After Domestic Violence Incident Turns Deadly.
I scroll through the article, my pulse thumping in my temples and a chill descending over my spine. Gail Langmore Griffin was hospitalized in stable condition after officers responded to a domestic disturbance call at her home. Her son, name redacted to protect the identity of a minor, and her husband, Joel Griffin, had been involved in an altercation, which ended in the accidental death of Griffin. Witnesses at the scene described the couple as having a “tumultuous relationship” characterized by frequent loud and violent exchanges. The police had been called to the home by the neighbors multiple times. No charges had been filed at publication.
Before I know what I’m doing, my thumb dials the bar. There’s only one person who can answer this for me, and I should’ve talked to him about it a long time ago. Our bar manager, Kayla, answers the phone. I lie, telling her that Banjo gave me his number and I lost it, and that I need to talk to him about a gift. I respect her enough that the whole exchange makes me feel more than a little guilty, and I promise myself I’ll make it up to her in my usual gift-related way later. Lying to people has always made me feel dirty, but I also think this is an extenuating circumstance.
Because this involves Jesse and his lies and machinations and his foul mouth throwing aroundmurderlike it’s just another Tuesday instead of a date on the calendar that might be capable of ruining my relationship.
I shiver as that dark word bounces around inside my mind.
Banjo picks up on the second ring, and it catches me off guard, stumbling my way through an introduction.
“Hey, Banjo? It’s uh. It’s Elowyn. You know. Elowyn, from the bar.”
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I only ever knew the one. Don’t meet many Elowyns, that’s for sure. Is there a reason you’re calling me? Is something wrong with Weston I should know about?”
I’m surprised by his quick assumption that the call is about Weston. I thought we had been keeping things low-key at work. Proves me wrong. I’ll have to talk to Weston about it later. If he doesn’t kill me in my sleep.
God, Elowyn, that’s not even funny. Just stop.
“I don’t know.” I put as much edge in my voice as I can muster. “Issomething wrong with Weston? You tell me.”
There is silence on the other end of the line. Either the call has dropped, or Banjo knows exactly what I’m implying. Finally, he answers.
“It’s not my place to say. This is Weston’s story to tell. And I think you should do him the courtesy of asking him yourself. If you cared about him, you wouldn’t be calling me right now. That is… unless you think he actually done somethin’ evil.” When I don’t respond, he continues, “Wait. You’re not afraid of him, right? He’s a good kid. You should know that more than anybody.”
“It’s not that. I just… what happened? Facts only. Weston can fill in the gaps.” I think of the way that Weston has dealt with Jesse. Both times, he could’ve hurt him or escalated things further, and both times, he chose to forcefully but peacefully diffuse the situation. As an expert in Tai chi, I don’t see him as the type for needless violence. But I think about Gail, and the way she swaddles him with guilt with every word out of her mouth. “This is about his mom, isn’t it? So… yeah, I could ask him, but he’s very tight-lipped when it comes to her. I’m not sure he’d be forthright with me in some warped attempt to protect her.”
“He’d do anything for someone he loves.” It’s an answer within an answer without an answer. He doesn’t say it exactly, but he doesn’t deny the way I’ve filled in the blanks.
“And now she holds it over him,” I sigh. “What the hell is wrong with her? If he doesn’t set some healthy boundaries, he’ll never be able to move on. Thanks, Banjo. I’ll talk to Weston next time I see him.”
The only thing Banjo really cleared up is that Jesse is a dickhead. If Weston deliberately murdered his stepfather, he would have been charged. According to the article, that never happened. But there is more to the story. I hang up the phone and drive back to the apartment in a daze, nearly rolling through a four-way stop before slamming on my brakes. I’m numb the entire way up the stairs, feeling nothing but the faint rush of adrenaline along the back of my neck. Weston is in the bathroom when I come inside, so I sit on the couch and try to compose myself before he comes out. Is there any polite way to ask what I need to ask?
Hey, Weston. I know we’ve been doing really well together, and things have been great. But my ex-boyfriend ambushed me at the post office and told me to google you and now I have to ask—did you maybe kill your stepdad over a decade ago? And if so, why?
