Medical conditions:(1) Stubborn. (2) Avoider. (3) Doesn’t trust his date with his secrets, even though random people from high school know them. (4) Is probably a chain-saw-wielding maniac, and I’ve just been hoodwinked by his charm and wit this entire time. (4) WHY WON’T HE TELL ME WHAT HE DID?
“Okay, that’s a million times worse,” he said after a few moments of silence.
“What’s worse?”
“That thing you’re doing.” He wiggled his hand at me.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“No, but you just turned on some kind of emotional force field and shut me out.”
“Did not.”
“Did too. It’s like ten degrees cooler in here.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Or are you being passive aggressive?”
Crap. I think I was, and I didn’t want to be. Aunt Mona sometimes accused me of the same thing, that I’d learned it from living with Grandma; few had mastered the art of passive aggression like Eleanor Lindberg.
I pretended to push a button in the air. “Bzzzt. Force field off. I’m really sorry. Let’s forget it.”
Daniel groaned. “No one who ever said ‘let’s forget it’ really meant that. What you really mean is ‘I am upset that you won’t tell me.’ And I get that, believe me. I’d be upset too. But it’s really,reallynot a conversation I want to have here. Can I promise to tell you some other time in the future? Please?”
“Of course,” I said. “Seriously, it’s fine.”
“You sure?”
I nodded, and he relaxed a little, which made me relax too.
Trying to put it all out of my head, I continued searching the room. My hand slid past something on the bookcase. I looked under a shelf and spotted a button. “Um, hey. If you found a mysterious button on a bookshelf, would you press it?” I asked Daniel over my shoulder.
“Are you serious? Hell yeah, I would. Show me.”
We looked at it for several moments, until curiosity got the better of me and I pressed it. The bookcase slid sideways into the wall like a pocket door, revealing a small room behind it, about the size of a walk-in closet.
“Secret room!” I whispered.
There wasn’t much to see, only a few shelves on one wall. And—
“Bingo. The lead pipe and Miss White’s character card,” I said triumphantly. But before I could fumble around in my jacket pocket for our detective list, the shelf began closing behind us. “Oh, crap! Make it stop!”
But it didn’t. The door shut, leaving us trapped in a tiny, dark closet.
“There has to be a release button, or something,” I said.
His hand patted around the wall. “There is.”
“Well, press it!”
“Only if you promise to stop being angry with me.”
“This isn’t anger—it’s panic.”
“There’s nothing to panic about. It’s a closet. Are you phobic about small spaces?”
“No, but I’m reconsidering.”
