Page 80 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
Under that dust is the outline of a square in the floorboards, the entrance to the same crawl space where Dad once got stuck while trying to fix a problem with the lights. The square of wood comes away easily enough under my fingers, dislodging more dust as I set it down. The last person who did this must have wanted to hide the telltale dust that showed someone had been under the floorboards recently but didn’t have time to go for a dustpan and broom and just yanked the lamp over a foot or two to cover it instead.
Beneath the floorboards is a snake’s nest of wires. If you’re wondering about clue three, we’re there now: the flickering light in my bedroom, which, like the mysterious moving lamp, only appeared after GG died. Something happened that night to disturb the wiring in my bedroom, but I never slowed down long enough to ask myself the obvious question:What?Or maybe:How?Hell, evenwhywould work, now that I think about it.
It doesn’t take much rummaging to find the box, which has clearly just been dropped into the hole, and drag it out to confirm I got it right: thefor Mis written in marker on oneside.
That’s when I hear footsteps and look up to see a familiar face illuminated in the moonlight.
27
“What are you doing up?”Dylan whispers.
“Same question,” I hiss back, looking at the hardcover copy ofAnne of Green Gablesin his hand. “Is that supposed to be a weapon?”
He looks at it, a little embarrassed. “It’s got sharp corners. Plus, I heard someone…howling out here? Was that you?” Then he sees the box and the cavity under the floorboards. “Whatareyou doing? Wait, is that the box?” I nod, and, now that my heart has returned to its regular rhythms, I’m glad to have him here, partly for the company and partly to be a witness to my brilliance.
“It was hidden under the floorboards,” I say as Dylan sits down next to me, placingAnnereverently on the bottom step of the staircase, where the next person to come down the stairs could slip on it and brain themselves on the floor. (This isn’t foreshadowing, just an observation, but there’s about to be so much more than a dangerously placed book to worry about.)
“How did you find it?”
I milk my moment, explaining to Dylan how I fit the pieces together (eventually) and (here’s hoping) making him feel like an idiot for overlooking the same clues I did.
“Whoever put the box here must have knocked something loose that affected the lights in my room,” I say, really spelling it out in case he got lost along the way. “Grandad’s wiring is pretty dodgy. I guess they planned to come back for the box later, or maybe they just didn’t want it to be found.”
“Who?”
“The murderer.”
“Right.”
We both look at the box.
“What do you think is in it?” I ask.
“You haven’t opened it?”
“It can’t be gold bars,” I go on. “Not heavy enough.”
“Why would the murderer leave gold bars behind, exactly?”
“Cash, maybe?”
“This might be a crazy idea, but instead of speculating, should we just open it and find out immediately?” Sleep-deprived Dylan is no fun.
Now that I’ve found the box, I’m reluctant to crack the top in a way that must seem both ridiculous and annoying to an outsider. I don’t know how to explain it except to say that it feels a bit like opening your end-of-year school report: You want to know, youhaveto know, but you’re also very aware that the information is going to determine not just your immediate mood (and, crucially, that of your parents) but, potentially, your future.
I drum my fingers on the box and push it toward Dylan. “Do you want to do it?”
“You found it.”
“We’re supposed to be partners.”
“Okay. Let’s do it together.” Dylan scoots closer, grabbing one side of the cardboard lid as I take the other, our heads bumping as we crane forward to see what’s in the box.
What’s in the box is…paper?
“At least it’s not, like, a head,” Dylan says, his mouth almost touching my ear. All those tiny little hairs on my neck I forget about ninety-five percent of the time stand up.
“Whose head would it even be?”
