Page 13 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
“There’s some missing.”
More footsteps. I’m tempted to shut my eyes, which is ridiculous, because I’m not a four-year-old playing hide-and-seek.
“Two doses are missing,” Dad says.
“Are you sure?” Aunty Bec asks.
“The packet hadn’t been opened last night. Now there’s two gone.”
“So I guess she took her meds after all?” That’s Aunty Vinka, who doesn’t sound bothered. I’m inclined to agree with her. It’s not going to make a difference to Gertie now whether she did or didn’t take her medicine.
“She’s only supposed to take one of these a night, so even if she did, where’s the other one gone?”
“One?” Aunty Vinka says sharply. “I’m sure it was two.”
“I see where you’re going, Andy, but Gertie didn’t die of a drug overdose,” Aunty Bec says.
“It just doesn’t make sense.”
“I think we should leave it to the police,” Aunty Bec says, “and forget this whole Poirot-in-the-drawing-room performance.”
“What?”
“Poirot. You know how at the end of every book the detective gathers all the suspects together and does the big reveal? Isn’t that what you’re aiming for, Andy?” I never knew Aunty Bec was a Christie fan too. Maybe everyone is secretly a sucker for books in which a seemingly inexplicable murder is solved by a smug know-it-all detective at the end. (I really hopeyouare.)
“I don’t think I could pull off a mustache.”
“I’ll say,” Aunty Vinka chimes in.
“You know what I mean, though,” Aunty Bec continues. “This playing-detective stuff. It’s going to be a long few days if we’re all sitting around here accusing one another of murder.”
Spoiler #1: It’s going to be a long few days either way.
Spoiler #2: I get to the bath before it overflows, but I won’t be so lucky next time.
6
In the morning I gofor a run to get a phone signal, past GG’s window, where cardboard covers the broken panes and the ladder is gone. The garden beds are churned up, and shards of glass in the soil catch the morning light. A long strip of police tape has become detached from the side of the house and is flapping around like a seagull with a broken wing.
My phone is full of texts from Ali and Libby asking for any updates on GG’s death and reassuring me that the movie was kind of bad so I didn’t miss anything. I give them the headlines: no updates and still no idea when I’ll be home. Neither of them is on their phone, apparently, so I hang out for a bit, swishing through my recent photos to delete the bad ones, just in case Libby wakes up or Ali risks a glance at her contraband Android. By the time I’ve consigned ten hideous selfies to the trash and changed my phone background to a photo of nearby Yallingup Beach (Dad took me our first day here, before things got weird), nobody has replied, so I jog home.
Dad’s not impressed by my morning’s activity like I expected, but rather pissed off that I didn’t tell him where I was going. He reminds me thata woman has died.The wordwomanmakes GG sound so young, like someone with a job and plans for Saturday night. I think up some comebacks in the shower, but by the time I’m wrapped in a robe and headed up to my room, I’ve conceded he might have a point.
Upstairs, I find Dylan sitting on my bed, paging through a paperback, and I let out a little yip of surprise, grabbing on to the cords of my bathrobe to make sure it hasn’t swung open. If you think I’m being paranoid, then let me suggest thatyou,unlike me, have never answered the door to a delivery guy while wearing only a robe. (No, I don’t want to talk about it.)
“Hi.”
“Hey.” He swings his long legs off the bed and straightens up, raising the book I’ve been reading. “How’s this?”
“Good, but, you know, I’ve read it before. I finally read the Naomi Novik series you were banging on about last time I sawyou.”
“And?”
“So good. I kind of hated the end, though.”
“I forgot you hate happy endings.”
“Was that ending even happy?”
