Page 46 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
From downstairs there’s the sound of a plate smashing and a yelp. Dylan strikes again. Maybe excluding him from this excursion wasn’t such a bad thing—he’d probably trip over and smash GG’s bedside lamp, leaving me to explain to the cops why we were rampaging through what may or may not still be a crime scene, looking for a cardboard box that probably just contains fifty years’ worth of recipes GG never got to cook because all Grandad really liked was steak sandwiches.
Lying flat on my stomach, ignoring the pain in my shoulder (which thinks I’m ninety-four, not fourteen), I commando-crawl under the bed, shivering at each puff of dust that goes up my nose. It’s streaming by the time I reach the boxes, and I see right away that none are the one I’m looking for. Still, I drag them toward me, just in case they’re chock-full of clues and not, say, receipts for appliances that are currently failing to decay in a landfill.
I’m just about to wriggle out from under the bed with my (pretty lame) booty when I hear it: footsteps outside the door and voices, low but familiar.
“…now?”
“We might…home tomorrow. I don’t think poking around here at night is a good look, do you?”
“Dylan’s downstairs.”
“Just be quick.”
There’s a moment when I could alert them to my presence.Things might have played out differently if I had. Instead I instinctively curl into the fetal position, my body directed by the ancient bit of my lizard brain that believes in the need to protect my vital organs. Never mind that I’m not hiding from saber-tooth tigers (did humans even coexist with saber-tooth tigers, or have theIce Agemovies lied to me?), my body has assessed the two people in GG’s room as a threat. Who am I to say it’s wrong?
“How long has this light been on?”
“Focus. Where did you say it was?”
“She put it in one of the shoeboxes with a bunch of old receipts.”
“Why?”
“She said nobody would ever look there.”
“Because it’s a mental thing to do. You’re sure the kids didn’t find it?”
“They would have said something. But I’ve got no idea where she put it.”
There are the sounds of GG’s belongings being moved about, of drawers running on their tracks, and I wait for their conversation to betray what they’re looking for. Lying as quietly as possible, not sneezing at the dust tickling my nose hairs, is all I can do.
“No, that’s not…Yes!”
“Have you got it?”
“No, I found Gertie’s old button collection. Yes, I’ve got it.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Okay. Um, what do we do with it?”
“Put it in your pocket.”
“I mean long-term. Do we throw it in the bin?”
“Would the police check the bins?”
“Light a fire.”
“This time of year?”
“What have you got, then?”
“We’ll get rid of it away from the house. Take it into town tomorrow or something.” There’s the sound of the wardrobe doors being closed, a little roughly. “I can’t believe you got me into this.”
“I didn’tget you intoanything.”
“She was a sweet lady, that’s all I mean. I feel bad.”
