Page 61 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
“How?”
“She’d taken one of my hairs on another visit.” Bec looks…what? Impressed? I sure am—I would never have imagined that GG had it in her. “Pretty stealthy, really.”
“What made her suspicious enough to go full Angela Lansbury?” Dad asks, and I don’t point out that DNA doesn’t feature highly inMurder, She Wrote,which is a seriously old murder-mystery show that ran forever ago but holds up prettywell if you course-correct for all the casual sexism. (If you’re interested, someone uploaded a whole bunch of full episodes to YouTube, and I’m not saying itwasn’tme.)
Bec chews on her bottom lip like it’s a stick of gum. “Are you sure you want to do this now?”
“I’m sure.”
“She told me she was going through your dad’s papers and she found some more details about the baby that was put up for adoption, which made her think it couldn’t have been me.”
“What?”Dad says.
“There’s more than that letter?” Aunty Vinka says.
This—can you tell?—is a legit bombshell. The whole love-child deal only came out in the letter Grandad left behind, complete with a wholeto be opened only in the event of my deaththing. He wasn’t scared of snakes, but he was not a brave man, my grandad.
“I don’t know whether your dad meant to leave the papers for you with the letter or not,” Bec says, anticipating everyone’s next question. “Gertie wasn’t sure what to do with them, so she gave them to me. She said she didn’t want to cause a rift. She said that she would keep my secret if I wanted her to. She said we’d still get an even share in the will.”
“What?” Aunty Vinka asks, just as Dad says, “Bull.”
“It’s true.”
“Did she know where the baby is now?” I ask. “I mean, obviously it’s not a baby anymore.”
“No. The baby really was adopted out, though. I’m not sure why—I think the mum was pretty young.” We all take a minuteto be disgusted by my late grandad (how young “pretty young” is I both do and do not want to know) before Bec keeps talking. “All I remember is that the baby was called Nicky by the adopted parents and I think they were living here in the southwest, at least for a bit. Green eyes, that was the big one.” We all take a moment to look at Bec’s brown eyes.
“Can I say something?” Aunty Vinka asks, immediately answering her own question when she goes on. “There’s something I want to say.” She comes up behind Bec, and I see non-Aunty Bec flinch as actual-Aunty Vinka’s free hand lands on her shoulder. “I forgive you.” In a rose-pink caftan thing, with her hair wild around her face, Aunty Vinka looks like a hippie from the sixties or someone who pickles her own vegetables and crochets blankets. (Actually, she definitelydoesdo both of those things, although the scarf she once crocheted for me was so bad that Mum let me take it to the secondhand shop, and even the lady behind the counter was all “really?” when I handed it over.) “I forgive you,” she repeats. Her eyes are half closed, so she probably doesn’t see Dad’s eye roll.
“Um,” Bec says, looking like she’s waiting for abut.
Aunty Vinka takes a step back and opens her arms. There’s a moment when it seems like Bec won’t get up, either because she’s not the hugging type (she’s really not) or because this is all super cringe (it really is), but then she stands up and allows herself to be hugged without giving much back. I look at Dylan in the hope of exchangingshe is too muchlooks, but he’s now staring at the table like it has insulted his girlfriend (and everyone knows I’m the only one who’s been doing that lately).
Aunty Vinka is still talking. “You made a really bad decisionand lied to us. But I still love you. You might not be my sister, but you’re still family.”
She’s absolutely not.
“Thank you,” Bec says after a slightly-too-long pause. “I appreciate that.”
“The thing is,” Aunty Vinka says, releasing Bec, “if there’s anything else that you want to tell us, now is the time. This is a safe space.” This feels like a stretch, given two residents of thisspacehave been recently hospitalized and another is dead.
Bec looks unsurprised. This, presumably, is thatbutshe was waiting for. “What do you mean?”
Aunty Vinka looks at her toes, which are painted rose pink to match the caftan. “Like with Gertie,” she says, and Bec’s jaw clenches shut.
“Are you serious?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just asking.”
“I cannot believe this.”
“The police are going to ask.” Aunty Vinka is such a spider-under-glass-trapping, oat-milk-drinking, gluten-fearing hippie that I forget sometimes she’s also Dad’s sister. You don’t spend twenty years under one roof without rubbing off on each other, I guess.
Bec pushes her chair into the table, a move that’s unnecessary but probably feels pretty good. “Call the police if you want. I have nothing to hide.”
“What about fraud?” Dad says. “The police might be interested in that.”
Bec makes a noise that’s as close topfftas I’ve ever heard in real life. “The Dunsborough cops aren’t going to care whetherI lied about my parents. They want to solve a murder, and the sooner they figure out I had nothing to do with that, the better. Come on.” The last two words are delivered to the tops of Shippy’s and Dylan’s heads.
