Page 68 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
“What do you think the son was in prison for?” Shippy asks. “If it’s murdering someone with a typewriter, surely this is case closed.”
“Shippy.”
“I’m just saying, if it’s a choice between us and some hardened criminal—probably an addict—the cops aren’t going to be looking at us, are they?” When nobody answers, he gives a smugI’ve made my pointlook. “I’m going to the upstairs bathroom for a slash,” he says, offering information no one asked for. He leaves the room and we all hear his yelp as he runs into Sasha.
“Sorry, mate.”
“My fault. Just having a—”
Sasha comes into the room, pink-cheeked after his collision with Shippy.
“I don’t know if the police know about Gertie’s son,” Sasha says, having quite obviously overheard our conversation (so maybe Aunty Vinka was right to worry). “But I wanted you to know.”
Dad walks Sasha to his truck. When he comes back in, it’s to send me to my room.
“We’re not going to talk about this?”
“It’s late,” he says. “So, no. You too, Dylan.”
My protestations are mostly knee-jerk at this point, because I want to be alone with my thoughts to consider everything we’ve learned: Bec is no longer my aunt! I have a criminal for a step-uncle! (Is that a thing?) Both of them had a motive to kill GG! Then there’s the fact that GG was dying, which means there was no real reason for anyone to kill her, since she was going to die soon anyway.
I try to think this all through logically, scared that I’ll drop the threads if I leave it till the morning. But exhaustion is all over me the moment I pull the blanket up, dragging me into mushy unconsciousness and what I hope is a dreamless sleep. It’s just as I’m about to go under that a couple of rebel synapses fire off to remind me of the most important point: Nobody in my family seemed to know that GG was dying. Which means that everyone’s collective motive remains intact and someone might simply have made a terrible miscalculation.
22
There’s a woodpecker outside mywindow.
Except…are there even woodpeckers in Australia? I’ve always thought of woodpeckers as existing only in American novels, where people get lost in the woods and there are bears to worry about instead of snakes. Certainly, I wish this one would go back to living in a fictional world and leave me alone when I’m trying to stay in my dream, which involved me playing in the Australian Open against Rafael Nadal (which, yes, I realize, makes no sense on a number of levels). I close my eyes, but the woodpecker is getting louder, and is it…talking? It’s at this point I have to say farewell to Nadal and the cheering crowd and admit there is no woodpecker outside my window but instead somebody knocking on my door, with a frequency and power that suggests they’re going to have bruised knuckles if I don’t get out of bed soon.
I reach automatically for my phone to check the time and remember that I still haven’t found it. How is that even possible in a house this size?
“Who is it?” I call.
“It’s Dylan.” He immediately opens the door, dramatically shielding his eyes. “I’m coming in.”
“I see that.”
“Get up, we’re going into town.”
“What?” I’m less surprised by the idea than by the fact that Dylan seems to be talking to me again, like nothing even happened, after last night.
“We’ve got to get out of this house.” Dylan looks more awake than usual, with shower-damp hair and a T-shirt I haven’t seen before, with what I’m pretty sure is a Pokémon on it. He sees me looking at it. “They’re back,” he says.
“Did they ever leave?” I mean it seriously, but he takes it for sarcasm.
“Shut up. Get out of bed. Your dad’s giving us a lift into town.”
“What?”
“Stop sayingwhat.Your dad said we could go with him but only if we’re ready in, like, ten minutes, and I hate to say it but he said that fifteen minutes ago.”
“Do you want me to come?” I don’t add the important bit:Since I helped expose your mum and her boyfriend as huge liars and maybe prime suspects in GG’s murder.
“Yes.”
“Why’s Dad going into town, anyway? What time do they have to go into the police station?”
Dylan ignores the questions and lobs a dress from the floor at my head. “See you downstairs in five minutes.”
