WHAT LIES BENEATH THE GRAVESTONE

Chapter 18: Grants confession

Jamie's eyes narrowed, his mind racing with possibilities as he processed Grant's revelation, like a detective piecing together the fragments of a puzzle. "Who could've put that note in your locker, and why?" he asked, his voice laced with skepticism, his brow furrowed in concern, like a farmer scrutinizing a weathered map for signs of an impending storm.

The creases on his forehead deepened, his gaze intensifying as he awaited Grant's response, like a scientist awaiting the results of a crucial experiment. His eyes seemed to bore into Grant's soul, searching for any hint of deception or hidden truth.

Adela's expression shifted from surprise to skepticism, her eyebrows arching upward in disbelief, like a drawn bowstring ready to release its arrow. Her eyes rolled heavenward, her lips curling into a scornful smile, like a monarch dismissing a foolish subject.

"I don't believe him," she said, her voice dripping with disdain, her arms crossing over her chest like a shield, deflecting any possibility of doubt or uncertainty. Her eyes flashed with annoyance, her gaze piercing Grant with a mixture of distrust and irritation, like a hot blade slicing through a fragile thread.

Her gaze lingered on Grant, like a hawk circling its prey, searching for any weakness or vulnerability to exploit. Her expression was a mask of incredulity, a fortress of skepticism, impenetrable and unyielding.

Grant's face reddened, his patience wearing thin, like a threadbare fabric on the verge of tearing. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding in frustration, like a gears jamming in a machine. "Just shut up, Adela," he snapped, his words biting, his tone venomous, like a snake striking its prey.

His gaze darted away from Adela, his eyes locking onto Jamie with a desperate plea for understanding, like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. His pupils dilated, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and desperation.

Adela shot him a displeased look, her eyes flashing with annoyance, her lips pursed in disapproval, like a disapproving teacher scolding a wayward student. She leaned back in her chair, her arms still crossed, her gaze fixed on Grant with a mixture of skepticism and disdain, like a judge rendering a guilty verdict.

Her expression seemed to say, "I'm not buying it," like a consumer rejecting a faulty product. Her eyes narrowed, her gaze piercing Grant's defenses, like a laser cutting through a thin veil of deception.

Jamie's gaze lingered on Grant, his eyes searching for any sign of deception, like a detective examining a suspect's alibi. His pupils constricted, his gaze narrowing slightly as he scrutinized Grant's face, like a scientist studying a specimen under a microscope.

Then, he asked, his voice measured, his tone cautious, like a tightrope walker navigating a treacherous balance beam. "Didn't you also put a note in my locker? Your excuse sounds too familiar for me to trust," he said, his words a gentle probe, a careful excavation of the truth.

The air was thick with tension, the silence that followed Jamie's question hanging like a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down, waiting to be answered. Grant's eyes darted away, his gaze dropping to the floor, his shoulders slumping in defeat, like a defeated warrior surrendering to his conqueror.

The weight of Jamie's words settled upon him, the accusation hanging in the air like a sword of Damocles, poised to strike, its blade glinting in the light. Adela snorted, a quick "ha" escaping her lips, her head shaking in disbelief, like a judge dismissing a weak argument.

Her eyes sparkled with skepticism, her eyebrows arching upward in a dramatic flourish, like a conductor leading an orchestra through a crescendo. "See, Jamie? We can't trust him," she said, her voice dripping with conviction, her gaze flicking to Jamie, her eyes locking onto his with a hint of urgency, like a warning bell tolling in the night.