Page 17 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
“We’re fine. I just want to know when we’re going to get out of here.” Dylan’s voice is flat. He does not care for this line of inquiry, and I let it go.
“You can get out ofhere—here being my bedroom—right now so I can get dressed.”
Dylan looks like he wants to say a thing, but he swallows it and stands up. “Have fun with your creepy dolls.”
“They’re figurines.”
“They’re going to watch you get dressed.”
He’s halfway to the door when we both hear a car engine. Nick? The police? The murderer come to turn himself or herselfin?
“It’s probably just Shippy,” Dylan says.
“Did he go out?”
“Yeah, Mum’s been freaking out.”
But it’s not Shippy.
7
It is, rather, the best-lookingman I’ve ever seen in real life. He’s standing in the kitchen, awkwardly holding an open cardboard box in his arms. This guy looks like a contestant fromFarmer Wants a Wifebut one of the rare hot ones, not the bros who are just a nice pair of arms. He’s wearing jeans, a checked shirt, and dusty boots, looking like a Google image search forAussie farmer.He’s not wearing an Akubra Cattleman hat and that’s a relief, not just because it’d be dorky as hell, but because he’s got thick dark hair it’d be a shame to squash. He must be a stickler for SPF, because he lacks the deep tan of most country people, but it works.
“G’morning, sorry to drop in like this out of the blue.”
Aunty Vinka and Aunty Bec are standing in front of him, both looking a little stunned. Dad, drinking coffee at the table, meets my eyes and rolls his just a little bit as I sit down next to him, grateful I took the time to get out of my robe and pull on a T-shirt dress. Up close I can see the box in Farmer Guy’s arms is full of what looks like a week’s supply of fruit and veg.
“I’m Vinka and this is my, uh, Bec.”
“You must be Mrs.McCulloch’s relatives.”
“Yes?” Aunty Vinka says, like she’s not sure.
“Sorry, my name’s Sasha.” He shifts the box to hold it against his body with one hand and extends the other to shake my aunts’ hands, one after the other. “I heard about what happened to Gertie, and I thought you could do with some supplies, if you’re sticking around.” He nods at the box in his arms.
“That’s so thoughtful. Thank you.”
“I’m sorry to hear about Gertie’s passing,” he says, so formally I want to blurtit was probably murderto shock him, or maybe just to get him to look at me. He’s older than me, obviously (not a huge market for fourteen-year-old farmers, so far as I’m aware), but not as old as Dad or Shippy. In his twenties, maybe?
“How did you hear about what happened so fast?”
“Everyone sort of knows everything in the country. Also, I have a friend who’s a cop.”
Sasha shifts the box with a grunt and Aunty Vinka notices. “Sorry, you can put that on the table.”
“Thank you.”
Dad doesn’t get up from the table or put down his coffee, but he gives Sasha a slow nod of greeting.
“I’m Andrew.”
“Sasha.”
“Did you know Gertie well?” Dad asks.
“I live nearby, so I did some work for her sometimes when she needed a hand.”
“You’re the young guy she mentioned—you bought the farm next door?”
