Page 23 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
Dylan and I scoot closer and I scan the view. There’s the lemon tree (still boring), the fence (ditto), and beyond that the paddocks.
“What did you see?” I ask Aunty Vinka, who sighs so hard her breath mists up a bit of the window.
“I saw someone out there, in the garden,” she says, pointing. “Near the tree.”
“There’s nobody there now?”
“I only looked away for a second and they disappeared.”
“Let’s look outside, then,” Dylan says. “Quick, before they get away.”
“Mate, I’m not sure—” Dad starts to say, but apparently nobody in this family walks anywhere anymore because Dylan’s out the door. He’s fast, but we catch him outside just as he gets around the side of the house.
“Dylan, slow down,” Dad puffs, sounding pissed off in a way that makes me think he might have noticed how entirelyunpuffed his fifteen-year-old nephew is.
“If there’s someone out here, we need to catch them.”
“If there’s someone out here, it might be the person who killed Gertie. You kids should go inside.”
“Itmighthave been a bird,” Aunty Vinka says, smoothing down the caftan that’s turned into an air balloon.Good of you to tell us now,I think but do not say.
There’s nobody in the garden. Or, if you want to get technical about it, there’s nobody but the four of us in the garden, and we’re not suspicious. (Are we?)
When we’ve all confirmed a lack of intruders (or birds), we head back inside together. I’m part relieved not to have to confront a possible murderer, part disappointed not to have learned anything new, and just a tiny bit concerned Aunty Vinka might be losing it. I’m so distracted I trip on a power cord trailing from the lamp at the bottom of the stairs and nearly face-plant into the railing.
“Steady on,” Dad says, catching my elbow. “One body isenough for the week.” Most of the time I wish Dad would stop treating me like a kid. This is not one of those times.
It’s unfortunate that, at no point during this ill-advised mission, did I stop to consider why someone might be prowling around the house and what they might be looking for. Perhaps, if I’d had a proper look around, I could have saved us all a lot of time and energy. Certainly, nobody else would have had to die.
9
The thing about family vacationsis you’ve got to be prepared for the fights. It doesn’t matter how many of you there are, how big the house is, or even how much you all like each other: Sooner or later someone will have a fight with someone else. Wait long enough and it’s entirely possible thateveryonewill have a fight with everyone else.
When Dylan and I fight, it’s not even about the murder.
We’re in my bedroom, officially just hanging out but unofficially comparing theories. We’re both suspicious of Sasha: Dylan because he’s too good-looking (he doesn’t say that, but I know) and me because it’s easier to think about a stranger killing GG than anyone in our family. Even so, it’d be easier to pin it on Sasha if GG had been killed with a shotgun or a spade or, I don’t know, run down by a combine harvester. A typewriter is such a weirdly specific choice of weapon that it feels personal, especially after Dad’s revelation (if it is a revelation) that GG asked him to move it only hours before it was usedto kill her. Is it possible GG wanted the typewriter moved because she was scared of it, or is that the kind of thought you have right before you get committed to a mental-health facility?
“Who else is on the suspect list?” Dylan asks when we’ve run out of possible motives for Sasha to be the killer. He flops back on his elbows, knocking my book off the bed with one long arm. He rolls over, exposing a slash of stomach I don’t even notice, picks it up, and scans the cover. “This is the one where the narrator did it, right?”
“No spoilers.”
“You’ve read it before. You’ve probably read it three times already.”
“Just because I know the ending doesn’t mean I want toknowit.”
“You’re so weird.”
“Hello? That’s why you adore me.”
“That’s true.” I’m waiting for the joke that doesn’t come, and instead, when I look at him, he’s just looking at me.
“Do you want to talk about a fictional murder in a book or do you want to talk about the actual murder that happenedunder our roof?”
Dylan concedes the point with a head tilt. In the days of the long hair, that head tilt made his hair fall into his eyes in a way that briefly inspired Ali and me to write some pretty gushy things in our journals. Now that he’s my cousin (halfcousin, and technically in Western Australia you can marry your cousin—don’t ask me how I know), maybe I should begrateful for the buzz cut (although it does, now I’m looking closely, make his eyes look even bigger).
“I asked the question,” he says. “Who’s on your list?”
I open the notes app on my phone to the list I’ve made, headlinedSuspects.He reads it, looking first confused and then amused.
