Page 88 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
“It was,” I agree. “Which makes it really weird that you were there at all, not to mention that you stole Gertie’s jewelry and smashed the window and dragged the ladder up against the house.” I imagine it: Sasha trying to figure out what he’s just walked into. I see him spotting the ladder on his way out of the house and coming up with a (let’s be real: bad) idea that would make the police look for an outsider and definitely not look too carefully at the ex-con already in GG’s life and living next door.
That’s the best I’ve come up with and it’s an objectively dumb plan, but who hasn’t acted on one of those?
Sasha shakes his head. “I didn’t touch the ladder or the window,” he says.
“You wanted to make it seem like this was an outside job,” I say, and if this was court, which it definitely is not, I can imagine some American-accented judge accusing me of leading the witness. “You were scared that the police might look a bit too closely at the people in GG’s life. Of course, if you’d been thinking clearly you would have left everything as is and hoped that the police wouldn’t notice the missing jewelry and would dismiss it as an accident, which it really was.”
“I didn’t do anything to her. You saw that.” Sasha has recovered some of his confidence. “You can’t prove anything. I didn’t even break in that night: Gertie and I were supposed to meet up that evening, but, well, everyone was supposed to be gone and you were all still here. I just came a bit later than we’dplanned.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“It’s not a crime to be a night owl.”
I’m only half listening. Mostly I’m trying to figure out if what Sasha has said is the truth: Was he standing out there, waiting for the house to fall asleep that night? GG certainly seemed like she’d been getting things ready for Sasha’s arrival, between the box and the typewriter. But she hadn’t said anything about expecting a visitor.
“Do you smoke?” I ask, and Sasha looks caught off guard, which is quite nice, actually.
“What?”
“Do you smoke?”
He hesitates, not wanting to give me even this, then shrugs. “Sure.”
Another couple of pieces snap together as I think of the cigarette butts Shippy noticed out in the driveway. Maybe Sasha isn’t BSing and he really was supposed to meet GG earlier that night but stood out there instead, waiting and smoking, not knowing what about the plan had changed but still wanting his chance at getting GG’s money and whatever valuables he imagined she planned to pass along to her son.
“You must have come back to try and get the box,” I say, thinking as I talk. “That was you in the garden on…Tuesday night”—I think I’ve got that right—“I guess. Was the idea to break in and get it? You must have been so stressed about that phone, which proved your innocence in GG’s death but also that you were up to some seriously shady stuff.”
“This is ridiculous,” Sasha says, crossing his arms, andas the muscles in his biceps bulge menacingly, I’m suddenly aware of how big he is, and not in a charmingFarmer Wants a Wifeway so much as a not-much-else-to-do-in-jail-but-lift-weights kind of way. “You kids are ridiculous, and you have no idea who you’re even talking to.”
Letting Sasha into the house was insane; showing him the video was worse. I’m suddenly sure I’ve made a colossal mistake. I want him out of here.
“Why haven’t you shown that video to the cops yet?”
I wait a beat too long. “We have.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I think you only just found it. I think you haven’t had a chance. I think maybe you haven’t even shown it to your parents.” He stands up. “I think I’d quite like to take that phone, actually. Just in case.”
I push back my chair and stand up, trying to angle my body so that Dylan’s phone, recording all of this from the kitchen backsplash, will be able to take in the whole scene. It’s supposed to be one part evidence, one part insurance policy, but it won’t do me much good if the phone captures Sasha bludgeoning me to death. He could so easily drive straight to the beach to throw the phone (and our bodies?) in the ocean, wash the blood from his hands, and maybe pick up a coffee while he’s at it.
“Like you say, this video only exonerates you, so what’s the big deal?”
“Come on, kid,” Sasha snorts, and I can’t believe I ever thought he belonged on reality TV. What an insult to theFWAWfranchise. “Do you think you’re in a movie or something? Giveme the phone. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. You’ve got nothing and I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You took GG’s jewelry,” I point out.
He scoffs. “It wasn’t even worth anything. And who’s to say she didn’t ask me to give it to her son?”
“You tried to kill Rob.” It’s the thing I shouldn’t say. The thing Dylan definitely didn’t want me to say. The thing I told myself I’d only say if and when I saw my dad’s car coming up the driveway. My dad’s car is not coming up the driveway.
“You think I tried to kill your friend?” Sasha has a stab at putting a wryly amused expression back into place, but he’s not quite pulling it off and he doesn’t sit down. “Why would I do that? I didn’t even know the guy.”
Dylan stands up, and Sasha half turns toward him, one hand sliding into the pocket of his coat. Surely if he had a gun he’d have produced it by now? Do all farmers have guns? Is he even a proper farmer, though, or was he lying about that too?
“Do you really live next door?” I ask, more to take his attention away from Dylan than anything else.
“Nah,” Sasha says slowly, turning back to me but keeping his hand in his pocket. “I just wanted an excuse to come by. Didn’t you guys ever wonder how one person was supposedly running a whole bloody cattle farm?”
I knew his hands were too smooth and pale. Farmers’ hands get messed up.
