Page 76 of Penny For Your Thoughts
“Yes, he is.”
“Diem Krause—”
“His living arrangements are unsuitable.”
“That’s not our problem.”
Diem didn’t have a response to that and opened the hall closet where we kept laundry soap and extra towels. He selected one of the latter and tossed it on the floor by the bathroom door, banged a fist on the wooden surface, and shouted, “There’s a towel out here for you.”
With Darcy’s backpack over his shoulder, he grabbed a handful of soap pods, our coin jar, and aimed for the apartment door. “I’ll be back.”
“You’re doing his laundry now?”
He slammed the door.
I stood helplessly in the middle of the apartment, unsure what to do. Diem had brought a stranger into our house. A criminal. Darcy may not have masterminded the scam against Elwood, but he had helped steal the money. What made Diem believe he wouldn’t steal from us, too?
Diem returned a few minutes later, rooting around in the bottom of the empty backpack. He tossed a battered phone onto the kitchen counter and dragged the garbage pail from under the sink. He upended the bag, dumping crumpled papers, empty candy wrappers, and old pens and pencils.
Before tucking the garbage away, he mumbled, “Fuck it,” and shoved the entire bag into the trash, pushing down to make it fit.
I crossed my arms. “Where’s he sleeping?”
“On the couch.”
“He’s going to leave in the middle of the night.”
“He won’t. He has nowhere to go.”
“He could go home. He has an apartment.”
“That’s not a fucking home. It’s a drug den.”
“He’s going to rob us blind.”
“He won’t.” Diem’s entire focus was on the cellphone and not the conversation.
I threw my hands up. “You aren’t even listening?”
“I am, Tallus, and he’s staying. You should have seen that apartment.”
“Not. Our. Problem, D.”
“It looked like a fucking crack house.”
“Not. Our. Problem.” I clapped each syllable to no avail.
He continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “Three guys, completely strung out. They’re shooting heroin, not snorting coke or smokingweed. It looked like a fucking landfill. Mice shit everywhere. Roaches. Mold. Feces. Christ, it might have been human feces. Smelled like a goddamn urinal, too. I didn’t have enough fingers to count the sheer number of health violations. He slept on a torn mattress on the floor among dirty needles.”
“So you decided to bring him here.”
“Yes.”
“Diem—”
“He’s not on heroin. He’s living there because he has no other options.”
“Says who?”
