June was boring. There were some needy residents who demanded help at every mealtime, but they were boring. My kingdom for a boring July.
I’m even envious of Truman. He’s out on the water, because that’s his specialty, but only Edgar goes out on the boats, and he’s totally avoiding drama. He keeps to himself, sidesteps conversations, and aside from the birdsong discussion and when I make him a latte in the mornings, the most I’ve heard him say is when he pokes his head into the kitchen to tell Lydia “Thank you.”
He’s the only one who does that, by the way. You don’t have to, and Lydia doesn’t expect it, but I think it’s cute.
Clearly I should’ve gone for lifeguard training and figured out all the different kinds of small boats and been on the water all day instead of here behind this desk.
They’re taking sides. It’s weird, because this didn’t happen last month, but Truman said it’s a tossup. Some groups gel, some occupy their own spaces, and some take sides.
The part I can’t figure out is if Emily came up with her Shelley theory on her own, or if she maybe heard me talking to Truman Friday night. I can’t imagine him passing it on to anyone, or Agatha passing it on, so unless she also heard Percy mention Perfect Days because it’s his own private running gag, and she caught the reference …
Look, I know that just because a suspicion comes from multiple sources, it doesn’t have to be true. We don’t even have much to base it on. Aside from the weird perfect days comment, which might have just been coincidence, we’re really dealing with an absence, and I’ve seen that before. She was fine. Working hard, but fine.
I’m just primed for things to be off this month. I told Jane the truth about how much Jonathan passes on about the residents, but she didn’t actually ask me how much I know. Or if I’ve met any of them before.
Truman comes up from the beach and heads directly into the dining room like he almost always does, piling up a sandwich tall enough that he’ll have to practically unhinge his jaw. It’s the fresh air and the paddling, he says, because he’ll be back in a couple hours for a full dinner, too. He brings his plate over to the desk and takes up the second chair, because he can’t really sit on the desk and handle the sandwich at the same time. “Status report?” he requests, rotating the monstrosity until he finds the perfect place for his first bite.
“All quiet.” Like he can’t tell.
“Too quiet?” He speaks with his mouth full, probably because it’s going to take him five minutes to chew all that.
Usually quiet is good. “All murders today are apparently poisonings or smotherings.”
Something flickers across his face. “Funny.”
I know it’s not, but his tone still surprises me.
“I didn’t bring it up,” Truman continues as sort of a peace offering, “but Edgar gets weird vibes from Henry.”
Ah, such a nebulous word. “Did he define what kind of weird?”
“Predatory bro vibes. And he also doesn’t know what someone like Henry’s doing here, unless it has to do with the predatory part.” He leans over the plate for his next bite, which is good, because a dollop of mustard plops down.
I wrinkle my nose and toy with the corner of my book. All the Agatha Christies are hardcover. “Rumor mill says Emily’s riling him up.”
“She’s an adult,” he dismisses.
I shake my head. “Some adults are more adults than others.”
“She’s still legally an adult,” he argues. “We make choices and have to face the consequences. And if Jane’s already trying to tell her to quit it?”
I don’t really want to nod, but I think that’s the truth.
“Then she doesn’t need someone else playing mother. We’d just make her double down yet again. So.” He tilts his head, maybe for the conversation but maybe for the sandwich. “If you’re worried somebody’s going to fall, you ready the safety net.”
Okay, that’s true, but to continue a theme, some falls are worse than others.
When I look over at him, he’s already looking at me. Not staring, but his eyes stay on me as he chews. “Can I ask you a question?”
I push my chair back and turn to face him, because there’s something in his voice. “Anything.” It’s a dangerous answer.
“Is Alyssa your real name?” Then, at my blink: “Truman’s my last name, but I’ve basically always used it. I just wanted to know … when I think about you, if Alyssa’s actually you, or …”
I look at him, at the brown eyes looking back at me out of his tanned face, and consider. It’s a little risky, maybe, but it doesn’t actually feel dangerous. He’s the only person here I’d tell, so I lean over, and wait for him to bend down, and whisper something in his ear. Truman’s next bite is delayed because of his smile.
Rebecca Frost 
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