Page 46 of By the Book

“Solving this murder by investigating George and Colleen’s rental. Obviously. What areyoudoing?”

“Trying to keep my parents, who are apparently in the clutches of senility, from getting themselves thrown in jail. How did you even find out where they were staying? No, don’t answer that. Where’s Dad? We’re getting out of here.”

“We can’t get out of here. We just got here. Dashiell, it’s obvious these people are perpetrating some kind of fraud. Now, your father and I believe there’s been a falling out among them—some kind of disagreement over money, I imagine.”

“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. We’re leaving right now. Don’t make me call Bobby.”

“If you were going to call him,” my mom said with a chilly smile, “you would have done it already.”

I opened my mouth to say something. Anything. But nothing came out.

I mean, how would it look? Interrupting Bobby at work. Making him come solve another problem for me. Exposing to him in excruciating detail how messed up my family was. Not to mention the fact that I couldn’t handle anything—no matter how insignificant—on my own. I still remembered what it had been like with Hugo. The day he’d simply taken the mail, with all the bills, and said,I’ll handle it, Dash.

That had been the start. And it had been nice. And by the end, I hadn’t been responsible for, well, anything.

I was still trying to come up with something better than just repeatingWe’re leaving right now, but before I could, my mom cupped a hand to her ear and said, “What’s that?”

After a second, it landed. “No,” I said. “That’s not a real thing. You can’t do that.”

“I hear someone calling for help. Someone’s inside, Dash. Someone needs assistance.”

“That’s totally spurious. And it wouldn’t hold up for five seconds in court.”

“We’ll see, dear. Break the door down.”

“You wantmeto break it down?”

“If you can.”

“If I—” I took a deep, murderous breath. “If Ican?”

Fortunately for my mom, before she could twist the knife any deeper, the sound of breaking glass filled the air.

“Oops,” my mom said.

I hurried around the side of the house in the direction of the noise.

A spacious patio extended from the rear of the building, with chaises and a firepit and a wrought-iron table under an umbrella. All of that only registered distantly, though, because I was staring at my father, who had apparently—in the last thirty seconds or so—become a felon. He stood next to a French door that had a conveniently (and suspiciously) broken pane. He was grinning.

“I couldn’t pick the lock,” he said, the words rushed with excitement. “But then I remembered when Talon had to get inside the office of that guy who owned all the garbage dumps. I’m going to say I heard someone shouting for help. Hi, Dashiell.”

“That doesn’t work—no, don’t go in there!”

But by then, he’d already reached through the broken pane, opened the door, and let himself into the house.

My mom followed.

Don’t judge me. What was I supposed to do?

Inside, it looked like a place that had been decorated thirty years ago, and the guiding aesthetic principles seemed to be: cheap, and easy to cover up any potential damage. The walls were white. The wood—doors, cabinets, and trim—was oak. Oak-y. A little too yellow, under the beam of the flashlights,to look natural. The windows had puffy valances printed with sailboats, and curtains to match. The upholstery was microfiber. The pillows and throws were polyester.

The kitchen held all the signs of temporary habitation: instant coffee, a bottle of something called coconut cream wine cocktail, disposable cups and plates, the box from a microwave-ready lasagna. Friendly signs reminded you that if you didn’t wash your dishes and take out your trash at the end of your stay, there’d be a hefty fine added to your bill.

Beyond the kitchen, a hallway connected three rooms. My dad took point (I’m only using that phrasing because he whispered three times, “I’m taking point”). He moved ahead of us, gun drawn. I thought if this was how I died, I would end up being a boyfriend-less ghost for the rest of eternity.

The first door stood open to reveal a bedroom. It had the usual tourist friendly décor: a driftwood whale, floral fuchsia bedding, an aluminum seagull frozen mid-squawk. A suitcase was open on the floor, and in the eyewateringly bright beam of my parents’ flashlights, I could make out a man’s clothes. They looked similar to what I’d seen George wear the night before.

“I’ll take a look,” my mom whispered, and a familiar snap made me glance over—she was pulling on a pair of disposable gloves.

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