Page 30 of Vera Wong's Guide to Snooping (on a Dead Man)

“Uncle Ollie, is Grandma in trouble?” Emma says.

Oliver tugs the collar of his shirt. “Uh, I think she might be?”

“Auntie Selena, why are you being mean to Grandma?”

Selena breaks her intense eye contact with Vera for a second and looks guiltily at the little girl. “I’m not being mean to Grandma, I’m just trying to make sure she doesn’t do anything silly, like place herself in the middle of a live case.”

“Ooh, so it is a live case? There is live investigation going on?” Vera says eagerly. “But why, if it is suicide?”

Selena groans out loud. “Vera, just—” She takes a deep breath. “Just don’t do anything that might put you at risk. Let me do my job, all right?”

The last thing Vera wants to do is get into a fight with her future daughter-in-law. She has resolved a long time ago that she wouldn’t be the stereotypical mother-in-law. Her own mother-in-law had been a tyrant of a woman, always picking fights with Vera over nonissues, and when Tilly was born, Vera had made herself a promise that whoever Tilly marries, that person is going to be so incredibly grateful to have Vera as a mother-in-law.

“Yes, yes, of course, you don’t worry about that,” Vera says. “Now, you wait there and I pack you up some food, okay? You don’t need to diet, Selena, you are very beautiful and healthy already, okay? You remember that now.” Vera pats Selena on the arm and bustles away to pack up the food for her.

Selena takes the bag of food with a very quick, very strained smile. “Thanks. But please remember what I said? Don’t go looking for trouble, Vera.”

“Such nonsense you talking,” Vera cries, waving her away. “I don’t need to look for trouble at my age.”

At her age, one does not have the time to look for trouble; rather, one goes on the hunt for it.

Eleven

AIMES

Aimes can’t sleep that night. To be fair, it’s been a while since she’s been able to sleep naturally; these days, she has to take a melatonin pill if she wants to not lie awake in bed for at least an hour before drifting off to sleep, and twice a week, she makes sure she goes to sleep quickly by polishing off a cheeky glass of wine, or two. She likes to think of it as a “cheeky” glass, even though she’s nowhere near British enough to pull off the word “cheeky.” But it makes it sound cuter rather than the beginnings of a potential drinking problem.

Tonight, Aimes has opted for the melatonin pill instead of wine. She’s eaten so much at dinner that two glasses won’t do a thing now, and she really can’t afford to go for a third glass. She’s got enough problems as it is. Like the fact that Vera is connected to Officer Gray. What are the chances of that? Just her luck that the random old lady who had randomly found her at a café happens to be Officer Gray’s mother-in-law. Or mother-in-law-to-be. Whatever, same thing.

Aimes turns around in her bed and buries her face in her pillow, willing the memories to stay away. Except, of course, they do the exact opposite of that. She recalls the day that Officer Gray paid her a visit. The horrible, sinking feeling when she saw Officer Gray standing there at her doorstep. They’d connected her with Xander. Of course they had, even though in her wildest dreams she’d hoped against hope that they might’ve missed that connection. How could they have? She and Xander had wanted the whole world to know that they were dating. It was their thing. The smart thing to do, she had said, and he had agreed.Not so smart now, are you?a small, awful voice says in her head.

More memories. Her and Xander propping her phone up on a stand and posing in front of it, laughing. Her surprise at how natural it all felt, how real. Even their banter with each other felt natural. Him donning a long blond wig and pretending to act like her, strutting everywhere and going, “OMG it’s fall season! Give me a PSL, STAT!” until she laughed so hard that a drop of pee came out. They’d had fun, hadn’t they? They weren’t just lies, there had been something real underneath it all, no matter how flimsy.

With a groan, Aimes gives up trying to fall asleep and reaches out to turn the bedside lamp on. She knocks a couple of trinkets onto the floor before finding the light switch. Aimes’s room, like the rest of her tiny apartment, is filled with useless knickknacks. Promotional material sent over by sponsors for her to peddle to her followers. There are so many of the damn things, it’s overwhelming. Even the table lamp is a free gift from a clay potter who has fifty thousand followers online and wants her to help promote him. It’s in the shape of a hand holding an umbrella. Aimes hates it, but her followers had gone crazy over it when she posted it toher Stories, so it’s here to stay. Every time she gropes around in the dark to turn it on, though, she shudders when her fingers brush the lamp’s fingers.Blergh. It’s like having someone’s severed hand on your nightstand. Why would anyone want that? Why does she still have it? Because. Because her followers love it. Because she is terrified that if she threw it away and she posts a photo from her bedroom and her followers see it is missing, they’d know. They’d know what a fake she is. And that is why Aimes’s apartment is filled to the gills with things she hates. Including herself.

Dim light spills across the room. Aimes locates her phone, unplugs it, and settles back in bed with it. She opens Instagram. Fifty-seven DMs and over three hundred notifications from the last time she checked, which was less than an hour ago. Aimes’s eyebrows knit together. That is way more messages than she typically gets in an hour. The notifications used to trigger endorphins, the likes nourishing her as tiny little pieces of vitamin C would. But now, the sight of the notifications and unread messages only makes Aimes feel overwhelmed. She taps on the DMs.

OMG Aimes, just heard abt Xan, are you ok??

AIMES I LOVE YOU NO MATTER WHAT!

OMG I’m literally in tears writing this.

Aimes’s stomach sours. Oh no. It’s happening. She opens DM after DM, only half reading them, the sense of dread seeping even deeper as she scrolls. Then one of them makes her stop. It has a link, and the message reads:Is this true????

The link leads Aimes off Instagram and onto TikTok. When itopens, Aimes’s heart stops for a second. It’s a video of Vera. A video that Aimes had shot just earlier this evening but somehow already has over one hundred thousand views.

In the video, Vera makes tea calmly. The camera zooms in on her weathered hands mixing the ingredients, then pans out to take in the small, loving smile on her face. Aimes isn’t surprised by how good the footage looks. She remembers getting sucked in herself while watching Vera, marveling at how comforting it is to watch her do something as simple as brewing tea. No, the footage isn’t what bothers her. It’s the audio. Vera has added a voice-over of herself narrating as she makes the tea.

“What happen to Xander Lin?” Vera’s voice says, full of suspicion and maternal concern. “Xander Lin was a social media star, many of you probably follow him. But police find him dead, and what is more suspicious, he is called John Doe by police. Because it turn out Xander Lin is not his real name. So, what is? And why does it seem like nobody know who is the real Xander Lin? Join me, Vera Wong from Vera Wang’s World-Famous Teahouse, as I investigate Xander’s death. Is it murder? I don’t know, but we will have good tea and good food as we look into murder. I mean death. But also possibly murder.”

For a second, Aimes almost throws up. She feels bile rush up her esophagus and lightly thump her chest, then swallows it. Oh god. This is bad. She needs to put a stop to this. But although Aimes has only met Vera twice, she knows that putting a stop to anything Vera is doing is probably going to be an exercise in futility. Maybe if she came clean to Vera, the older woman might feel sympathy toward her and…

And what? Stop looking for answers? Unlikely. She’s investigating an actualdeath, not just some Internet scandal. And what ifVera’s right about Xan’s death being suspicious? Would Aimes really get in the way of a potential murder investigation just to hide her dirty little secret?

Aimes groans out loud. How did she get herself into this mess? She flings herself out of bed and paces around her room. Here and there, her feet catch on more unusable knickknacks and she wants to cry with frustration. There are exactly two corners in her entire apartment that aren’t choked with clutter—her bed and one side of her couch, which is right next to the window. Those two spaces look pristine most of the time, because they are where she shoots most of her content for social media. If someone were to look through her Instagram profile, they would think Aimes had everything under control, that she lives in a beautifully curated space instead of the mess that dominates her life.

She needs to get on top of things. A choked laugh burbles out of her at the thought of it. She thinks this to herself at least seventeen times a day:I’m going to get on top of things.It feels as though life were a treadmill, and Aimes has to keep rushing just to keep up with everything that it keeps throwing at her. She stops moving and stands in the middle of her bedroom, ignoring the piles of clothes, random plates, books, and other crap around her. Get on top of things. Right. How should she begin to do that?

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