Free Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery) by Terri L. Austin Page B

up.”
    He jumped from the sawhorse and took a couple of steps toward me. With the knife open and clutched in his hand, he tapped it against his thigh. “Go to hell.”
    “Back atcha.” My body tensed, ready to spring if he decided to use it on me. But I didn’t think he would. He was a scared kid, trying to act like a badass. I hoped.
    “Get out of here,” he said. “I mean it.”
    “Did you know Delia Cummings?”
    His brows shot up at the sudden switch in topic. “My dad’s secretary? Yeah.”
    “You know she was killed last Sunday?”
    He shoved his empty hand in his pocket. “So?”
    “She was stabbed.”
    Glancing at the knife, the corded tendons on his neck bulged. “Yeah, I know. She was a total bitch. She acted all nice to my face, but I overheard her at the station once, telling some red-haired chick I was nothing but a screwup, just an expensive mistake.” When he glanced back up at me, his eyes flashed with emotion. “I’m glad she’s dead. Now maybe my mom won’t cry every night.”
    I paused a beat, pulling a Sullivan-like move for maximum impact. “Did you kill her?” I studied him carefully. He could have. Could have snuck out of his room, used his Dad’s key to get into Delia’s house, stabbed her, then crept back home with no one the wiser.
    Stalking toward me, he bumped his chest into mine. I took three steps back.
    “Oh, you’d just love to pin this on me. But I was at home. Ask my mom, my sister. I’d only been back in town for a few hours.” He stepped toward me again, tapping that damn knife against his leg. “Piss off, lady.”
    I stood my ground this time, even though he was so close, his spittle dotted my face. Talk about invading my sacred space. With one hand, I wiped it away and stared him down. “What are you addicted to, Mason?”
    “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t kill Delia.”
    I nodded, moved around him, forcing myself to walk out of the barn at a normal pace. That kid was a blooming psycho. I tried to cut him some slack. Being sired by hell’s spawn, Martin Mathers, hounded about his sexuality—that couldn’t be easy, but Mason was headed one of two places: the grave or prison.
    I sped back to the house and eased the door shut behind me. I ran into the maid on my way through the terracotta hallway.
    “They’ve been asking for you.” She looked me up and down, took in the sawdust still lingering on the damp toes of my shoes. “You get lost on your way to the restroom?”
    “Yeah. I got detoured.”
    Her brown eyes settled on mine. “Don’t let Mrs. M. know a detour took you to the barn. She doesn’t like people going out there.”
    “Maybe she should tell that to Mason.”
    “Leave it alone,” she said. “I’ll take care of Mason.”

Chapter 10

    My mother didn’t say a word on the way to the car. But once we got inside, she was all fury and wrath. “Where did you disappear to? I was utterly humiliated. You were gone for over twenty minutes. Poor Annabelle probably thought you were pilfering your way through the house. I told her you had irritable bowel syndrome.”
    “Nice save.” I snapped my seatbelt and gave it a yank. “I talked to Molly and Mason. Molly’s a cutter and Mason is still using. He hides it in the barn. And he is one viciously angry kid.”
    Some of the irritation seeped out of her. “Well, of course he is. His father was being indiscreet with his secretary. Annabelle has been distraught.” She started the car and drove away from the property. “And what is a cutter?”
    “Molly uses a razor and makes little cuts into her skin.”
    She gasped. “That’s awful. Does it leave scars? Annabelle needs to know.”
    “I’m pretty sure Annabelle already knows. She has Molly in therapy. Dr. Handley.”
    That seemed to calm her. “He’s very good. Almost everyone I know goes to him. He’ll fix her.”
    My mother had a very strange perspective on mental health.
    She merged with traffic onto the highway. “What’s our