Page 81 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
He ignores my question. “What didyouthink it was going to be, really?”
“Not a head.”
“I kind of can’t believe you actually found it.”
“That’s insulting.”
“It’s really not.” Then Dylan does a thing that…okay, maybe it’s embarrassing to be focusing on this right now when you just want to knowwhat’s in the box, Ruth,but this is how it happened. First let me paint the picture: The two of us are sitting close together on the floor, our arms are touching, and we’re both leaning forward over the box, but supporting ourselves with one hand each on the floorboards. (I’m getting to the thing, honestly.) Then Dylan picks up his hand, the one on the floor, and I think he’s going to dig inside the box, but instead he lays it back down on top of mine. He does it without putting his weight on it, so it’s not so much that he’s crushingmy hand but that his hand is resting on top of mine. Take my word for it, it’s so much better than it sounds (and he’sdefinitely notmy cousin, just in case you’re starting to feel squeamish). Then he turns his head (remember, we’re right next to each other, and also, chill out, you’ll find out about the box really soon), so he’s looking right at me.
“Seriously, Ruth, you’re amazing.”
His eyes have gone a bit soft again, and this is the point where if I was, say, Ali, I would lean in and kiss him. Or if I was Libby (and, in her case, if Dylan was a girl), I would stay right where I am and let him kiss me. Definitely, there would be kissing involved. I don’t know how to explain it, but my best friends were born knowing how to make these things happen. I’m me, though, so, overthinking it, I ignore the hand situation and say, too loudly, “Let’s take a look, then.”
Dylan’s face briefly drops, then rebounds. “Let’s do it.”
“Sorry,” I say quickly.
“What for?”
“Nothing.”
Unlikely as it seems, I’ve somehow made things worse because maybe the Moment was actually just a regular no-cap moment and I’ve imagined Dylan’s accidental hand placement was a thing when it wasn’t, and if the space under the floorboards was any bigger, I’d be tempted to throw myself into it. Then I sneak a look at Dylan’s face and I’m pretty sure he’s trying not to smile.
Dylan lifts out the top layer of papers and starts to go through them. I reach into the box for more and my handshit plastic. It’s a cheap sporting trophy with a softball player on top andBest Team Playerengraved underneath. Not…quite what I expected. There’s also a little drawstring velvet bag, which I weigh in my hand. This is more like it. Diamonds? Rubies? Some kind of microchip…thing, like in a spy movie? The thought exhausts me: I have seriously not got the energy for international intrigue/espionage/fighting anyone on top of a train, or whatever.
I tip the contents of the bag onto my hand, then immediately let them drop through my fingers to scatter on the floorboards.
“What?” Dylan asks in response to my stifled shriek.
“Teeth,” I say. “It’s full of teeth.”
We look at the small pile of beige-yellow teeth lying on the floor, and then at each other.
“So, Gertie was, like, a serial killer and these are her trophies?” he asks, joking but maybe not completely joking.
“I think they’re baby teeth,” I say when we’ve both calmed down.
“That’s worse, isn’t it?”
I pick up some papers.
“I’m scared it’s going to be a huge anticlimax. Like GG was secretly a tax dodger and this will be forty years’ worth of pay slips.”
“Well, let’s find out if the tax office needs to get involved.”
We spread the paper out on the floor and it doesn’t take long to get the picture. Here are the birth certificate, school records, sports trophies, and, yes, presumably baby teeth ofsomeone called Martin Robert McCulloch. GG’s son. It’s got to be.
“So,” I say, wanting to be the one who puts it all together but also not sure what the hell I’m putting together. “GG kept all these mementos of her son—that makes sense. But why did her killer not want anyone to find them?”
“There must be something in here.”
“Like…what?”
Neither of us says anything. I go back to the box to see what else I can find, and I’m sifting through swimming certificates when my hand strikes something hard. It’s a phone. It’s old but not ancient—an iPhone from maybe four or five generations ago. It’s dead.
“I’ve found photos,” Dylan says, glancing quickly at a couple of them. “They look like some kid: Gertie’s son, I guess.” He looks up. “You found your phone.”
“It’s not mine.”
