Austin’s room is simple and neat. The few posters he has on his walls—Farach Fawcett, David Beckham, Jessica Alba, Mark Wahlberg, Pamela Anderson—seem to show his taste in sports and movies. I’m still scanning the room when he says,
“Sorry if it’s a little dull,” I compliment his room, despite what he said or what I actually think, and he offers me a drink. He leaves the room and I assume he heads for the kitchen. He walks back in, two seconds later and says, “I have to go real quick to pick up something for my mom. She left a note on the table and I have to get it before I forget.”
“No problem,” I say with a smile. Smiling back he walks out his room and I hear the front door shut closed. I look around the room one more time and head to his dresser where a mirror is placed. I check myself out and notice a book titled Austin SL on top of the dresser. Hmm, I wonder…
Gabe! Stop. It’s probably a diary or something, which means not for me to read.
Then again, it could uncover a mystery.