Max nodded. “I’d say Mr. Hafer just moved to the top of our suspect list.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The EX
When we went to the Phi Kat house to question Grant, he wasn’t there. Basile was.
“It’s good to see you again, Cella,” he said and gestured us inside. “Grant’s not here, I’m afraid, but I’d be happy to try and help if I can.”
As we faced each other in the living room, beer bottles on the coffee table and the faint smell of sweaty soccer gear in the air, I couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the two men. Max appeared to be nearly Basile’s opposite. Where Max was rough, Basile was smooth, in his pressed trousers and airy shirts, unbuttoned at the top so you could just see a sliver of his chest. Max wore a hat because his hair was a mess most of the time, while Basile’s was polished and perfectly arranged. Max smelled like rain and hard earth and the outdoors, Basile like expensive cologne. Basile had dark circles beneath his eyes and hands that were smudged with ink. He looked like he’d been grading papers until the early hours of the morning. As for Max … well, to be honest, Max always looked a little disheveled and feral, like he’d just had sex.
As if he knew what I was thinking, Max smiled roguishly.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?” Basile asked, directing the question to me.
“I’m okay, thanks,” I said, trying to ignore Max raising his eyebrows and gesturing at his jeans. “We were hoping you could tell us about Grant Hafer. How did he know Maya?” I asked.
“Of course.” Basile set down his cappuccino. “Before we go in, if I could ask you to remove your shoes?” His nose crinkled at Max. Max had just driven over from the ranch and had dirt splattered across his jeans and caked on his boots. “We don’t usually have workers trudge through the house. They’re the original floors. I’m sure you understand.”
A flush crept up Max’s neck. “Sure thing.”
We followed Basile and sat down on the sofa. “Grant and Maya were high school sweethearts. He actually proposed to her here, sophomore year. They broke up shortly afterward.”
Max glanced at me, his expression as shocked as mine. How had this not come out earlier?
“What happened after that?” I asked.
Basile shrugged. “And then Maya was single for a while. Went to parties, enjoyed her time as a college girl.”
Max lifted an eyebrow. “Huh. Guessing Grant wasn’t too happy about that.”
Basile rubbed the back of his neck; he tapped his fingers against his knee. A tremor in his statuesque calm. “No, he wasn’t, but it’s not as if she was terribly discreet or gave any thought to his feelings. I’m not saying it was right, but I understand why he felt the way he did.”
“Her sophomore-year roommate mentioned threatening notes,” I said. “Guessing that was Grant.”
Max leaned back. “Sounds like your boy had a case of small-dick syndrome.”
Basile’s expression darkened.
“How far did it go?” I asked.
Basile grimaced. “He called her a whore. Look, I know how it sounds,” he said when Max and I exchanged a glance, “but he’s all talk. Grant’s not dangerous. He’d never actually do anything—”
“But obviously he had some animosity toward Dani,” Max said.
“Dani and Maya started dating nearly a year after all this happened. Grant was over it at that point.”
“Doesn’t sound like he was over it to me.” Max showed him the meme on his phone. “I’d like to know what you make of this.”
Basile leaned forward to grab the phone, accidentally brushing against my knee. “Sorry,” his lips murmured. I traced the cut of his jaw, his long nose, every inch of him regal and refined. I could feel Max’s eyes on me and cut my glance away.
Basile studied the image for a moment and winced. “Obviously, it’s not good.”
“You’re tellin’ me. It was posted two days after her death. What’s it mean?”
“Well, I should think there are some obvious implications …”
“We understand the reference,” Max said, a little more sharply than was warranted. “We mean the first part. The cryptic ‘Receive not a swallow in your house.’”
