Tugging my hand through my hair, I said the first thing I could think of that wasn’t a lie. “I would have made an effort to be nicer, if I’d known you were interested.”
That was true. I would have, for Cletus. Just like I would’ve done anything for any member of my family.
“Beau, you should be nicer regardless of my feelings on the subject. You’re nice to everybody else. You know what Momma used to say: ‘If you don't want someone to get your goat, don't let them know where it’s tied.’”
I nodded absentmindedly, yet the sharp discomfort in my lungs kept me from drawing a full breath.
“Is there something going on with you?”
I met my brother’s searching glare in the mirror, realizing that I’d been standing in the middle of his room, staring at nothing in the mirror for too long. Seeing he looked concerned, I pasted a smile on my face, just a small one.
This didn’t seem to satisfy him.
After a time I shook my head. “Nope. Nothing is going on with me.”
His eyes narrowed, telling me he was doubtful.
“Stop it, Cletus.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop trying to peer into my mind.” Forcing a wider smile, I shoved my hands into my pockets.
“I would never do that, Beau. Your mind is a depraved and dissolute place. I would fear for my eternal soul should I manage a glimpse inside.”
I didn’t have to force anything as my grin grew, but decided to leave before he could question me further.
Turning from the mirror, I said, “That’s right,” as I began strolling out of his room, keeping my steps unhurried, my tone light. “And don’t you forget it.”
* * *
“What do you know about Shelly?”
Duane sent me a look, the question clearly catching him off guard.
We were once again at Genie’s, but this time it was a Saturday night. The place was packed.
Luckily, Patty still seemed pleased with me, which made me wonder whether Darlene hadn’t yet told Patty about our split. Regardless, when we arrived, she’d been all smiles and escorted us to an empty booth marked reserved and had just left to bring us a round of beers. It felt like real VIP treatment.
Duane and I had just arrived; Jess was due any minute, as was Hank. That meant I only had a few minutes with Duane to discuss the topic of our coworker.
My twin gave his head a subtle shake and searched my expression. “Not much,” he said finally, not disguising his irritation, like the answer was obvious and he didn’t like being forced to vocalize it.
“She talks to you.” I leaned forward, not wanting to yell over the music.
“Yeah. But not much.”
“Come on, y’all work on stuff together all the time. Surely, she must’ve talked about herself.”
“We’re not sharing our feelings, Beau. We’re working on cars. I know she’s left-handed, she prefers right-handed tools, she’s mean to strangers, and she seems to be able to engineer car parts from scratch.”
“Fine. You don’t know much, and you don’t ask. But have you noticed—” I glanced around the bar quickly, to make sure no one was looking, before motioning to my forearm.
His eyes followed the movement, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “What?”
“Her arms.”
“What about her arms?”
“She has scars along the interior of her forearms.”
Duane stared at me for a beat, blinking once before asking, “So?”
“They’re self-inflicted.”
That got his attention. Duane’s eyes widened and darted to my arm again, as though he might find wounds there.
Patty arrived while Duane and I traded stares, dropping off our beers and giving me a wink—which I answered with a polite smile. She soon rushed away, called to another table.
Duane leaned forward, ignoring his beer. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I don’t see how they could be anything else. They’re tidy. An inch long, about a quarter of an inch apart. They look like they’ve been made with a razor or a sharp knife.”
Duane’s eyes flared at the word razor and I knew what—or rather, who—he was thinking about. Razor Dennings, the Iron Wraith’s president, had earned his name by cutting on people.
I quickly shook my head, but Duane spoke before I could. “Are you sure she didn’t get them from someone else?”
“I guess she might’ve, but they follow the classic pattern of cutting.”
“Classic pattern of cutting?” he sputtered, rearing back. “What are you? An expert on self-harm?”
“Don’t be a dummy. I googled it after I spotted the scars on her arm. And when she saw me looking, she covered it real fast.”
“Huh.” Duane crossed his arms on the table, his expression thoughtful, then asked doubtfully, “Then . . . she’s crazy?”
I grunted. “Just ’cause she cut herself doesn’t make her crazy.”
“Really? Sane people cut themselves?”
“Define sane.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You wrecked your mint-condition Road Runner last year at the dirt races. On purpose. Are you sane?”
“Don’t get your feathers ruffled, Beauford.” Duane rolled his eyes, glancing toward the bar. “I’m just saying, she doesn’t seem crazy.”
“Oh yeah? How do crazy people seem?”
His eyes cut to mine and his expression intensified. “Out of it, I guess. Out of touch. Messy. Emotional. She’s not messy at all. Have you noticed she’s been reorganizing the entire garage? Everything has a place. It’s nice. And, emotional? No. Other than hollering at you yesterday, she doesn’t seem to have any emotions at all.”
“Face it, Duane. We’re not acquainted with anyone who has a mental illness. At least, not that we know of.”
“Not unless you count our father.” Duane’s jaw ticked, his eyelids drooping to half-mast. “He’s definitely messy, out of touch, emotional.”
“His mental illness is called being an asshole.”
“I think that actually is a mental illness, if you want to get technical. Called narcissism, or narcissistic personality syndrome, or being a sociopath. Ashley’s friend knows. Isn’t she a psychiatrist?”
“Which one?”
“Sandra, I think? The redhead. From Texas. The one that made Cletus cry last year before Momma died.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.” I filed that piece of information away, just in case I needed to ask questions about Shelly, how we should deal with her, make sure we didn’t do something to accidentally push her off the deep end.
“Besides, Shelly doesn’t remind me of Darrell. She’s not . . . bad. She’s just really rude.” I chuckled a little, realizing—very reluctantly—that on some level I enjoyed her rudeness. I liked her clever comebacks.
She reminded me of Duane in a lot of ways, but to an extreme degree. Honest, clever, with zero patience for bullshit. But Duane shook peoples’ hands, and knew when to keep his opinions to himself, neither of which Shelly had seemed to master.
“She doesn’t remind me of him either.” Duane’s mouth twisted to the side, he seemed to be thinking matters over. “I’m guessing you haven’t talked to Cletus yet?”