Page 95 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
“A bigger place.” He doesn’t addfor Jane,but that’s got to be the subtext, if I’m going by the fact that his cheeks are on fire.
“What about the streaming services?”
“We have too many streaming services. Human brains weren’t made to have this much choice.” He does a very un-Dad-like thing and puts his hands over his face. “This is not how I wanted to have this conversation.”
“Forget I said anything,” I say, wishing this could literally happen.
Nobody speaks, and then Detective Peterson inserts herself back into the conversation. “Are there any more romantic revelations to disclose, or do you think we can get back to the criminal investigation?” she says brightly.
There’s a bit more back-and-forth about who said and did what. Dylan and I do most of the talking, tripping over each other. At some point Michaels reappears with news that three phones were found on Sasha and have been taken as evidence. Detective Peterson stands up, closing her notepad.
“It’s been a big morning and I should head back to the station. Ruth, Dylan, you both look exhausted. Maybe we’d better have you in tomorrow for an official statement instead of today.”
(At the risk of confusing the timeline, it’s worth noting that what Detective Peterson also learned on that radio call, but doesn’t tell us right away, is that Sasha has died. She already knows there’s not going to be a big trial, just a sad little inquest that Dad, Aunty Vinka, Bec, Dylan, and I will attend, so a lot of the urgency has drained out of this whole thing.)
Dad doesn’t look thrilled. “We were hoping to head back to Perth.”
“Really?”
“Detective, no offense, but we’ve been trying to get out of this town all week.”
“Nick’s back in the hospital,” I point out.
“If we wait for Nick to stop injuring himself, I’m going to die in this farmhouse.”
“We really do need the kids to come in, in person,” Detective Pearson says in a way that it almost sounds like she’s asking a question, although she definitely is not.
“Okay, but we are leavingfirst thingafter we’ve been into the police station tomorrow, then,” Dad says, way louder than I think he means to. “You need to go to school. I need to keep my job. I also need Wi-Fi, my coffee machine, and I really, really need some clean boxers.” Nobody responds to that last one because: ew. Also, there’s a washing machine here that Dad could have been using, so that one is kind of on him.
Dad and Aunty Vinka walk out with the cops and Dylan and I trail behind. I’m carrying the last two gingersnaps. It’s only lunchtime, but I’m shattered, held together by sugar and whatever adrenaline leaves behind when it goes away.
“Detective Peterson, can I ask you a personal question?” Dad asks.
“You can ask.”
“Are you adopted?”
It can’t be what she’s expecting, but Detective Peterson must have an amazing poker game because, from what I can see of it, her face doesn’t change. “How did you know that?”
“It’s a long story.”
Iknow why Dad asks and I assume you do too, unless you’reseriously not paying attention. Sure, it’s a pretty long shot that this Detective Nicola Peterson could be the half sibling “Nicky” who was adopted out, but also, well, here she is with the right name, the right eyes, and living in the same town where Dad and Aunty Vinka grew up. Personally, I’m already gaming out what it would be like to have an actual cop in the family. She could be the cop source-on-the-inside every amateur detective needs…assuming she’s both unprofessional and reckless enough to let a kid get involved in proper criminal detection, which seems pretty unlikely. Still, it’s a start.
I look at Dylan to see if he’s listening and he raises both eyebrows. I raise one back, just to piss him off.
“Stop for a sec,” he whispers, and I do reluctantly, wanting to eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation.
“Didn’t you hear what they were saying? Dad thinks the detective could be Grandad’s love child.”
“I’m going to wait for the DNA test on that one,” Dylan says. “I’ve been burned before.”
“You have a point.”
“We need to do something, quickly, while your dad and Vinka are out here. Please?”
There’s an urgency in his voice that stops me from asking logical questions likeWhy?What for?andHaven’t we just solved the whole case like a pair of child geniuses?Instead I follow him inside and back to the kitchen table, where Bec and Shippy are still sitting.
“…completely different to Bitcoin,” Shippy is saying. They look up.
