Page 100 of A Murder is Going Down

‘Maybe,’ I say, visualising myself in laneway coffee shops, snapping rainy photos for social media to driveBen wild with jealousy (he’s always wanted to live in Melbourne) and meeting Patrick for … what, exactly? We’ve become friends, Patrick and I, but are we the kind of friends who cross the country to crash on each other’s couches? Although technically, he hasn’t suggested I crash on his anything. And is it really possible to be friends, or anything, with someone you don’t completely trust?

My phone beeps again. This time it’s Lilia.

Can I call? It’s important.

My conflict must show on my face because Patrick asks, ‘What is it?’

After exactly one beat of hesitation, I show him the message.

‘Why would anyone want to talk on the phone ever?’ he says.

‘It’s not just that. It’s …’ I make a face intended to end the sentence for me.

‘I thought you two were friends again. What’s the problem?’

‘I don’t know if we’re friends again,’ I say. ‘It’s been kind of … nice hanging out again, but it’s like she wants to be best buds immediately and I can’t.’

‘Because of the Ben of it all?’

‘Because of the Ben of it all, who she now thinks is cheating on her, by the way.’

Patrick looks like he’s tasted something disgusting. ‘For fu … Look, I gave you my best speech about the value of friendship, but that doesn’t mean you have to take her back.’

‘I think you’re overestimating your influence on my life decisions,’ I say.

My phone rings again and I flick it to silent. I still haven’t decided whether what Lilia and I had can be salvaged and now is not the time to do so.

Patrick hands me a bottle of spray-and-wipe and a cloth, and hoists the vacuum.

‘Let’s do this,’ I say, spraying a mist of lemon-scented chemicals into the air.

Patrick grins at me. I’m standing in this light-filled home, while a song I love plays on my portable speaker, this boy with all the dimples is grinning at me and, yes, the spray-and-wipe droplets now landing on my face are making my eyes run, but I don’t really care. I’m allergic to sentiment of any kind, but if I wasn’t, I might identify the twinge I feel inside ashope.

Lilia doesn’t come up again until we’re cleaning the living room.

‘I feel like the Lilia thing is my fault, like I forced you two together by bailing on the investigation into Felix’s death,’ Patrick says, clicking off the vacuum cleaner to wipe dust off the bookshelf with his hand.

‘Whydidyou bail?’ I ask.

‘I told you already.’

‘You said you decided there was nothing suspicious about Felix’s death. Then, Haruto says he saw someone out there that nightandwe find out Aunty Sam was sneaking aroundandBen and Felix were messaging each other,plusthere’s the whole Adam thing. You really don’t think any of that sounds at all suspicious?’

Patrick looks upset.

‘It’s complicated,’ he says. ‘There’s stuff you … We shouldn’t be messing around with this.’

‘What doesthatmean? What are you not telling me?’ I demand. I’m holding the spray-and-wipe bottle and I point it at him like a joke, but I’m not really joking.

Now

‘I knew Patrick was involved,’ Marianne says.

Then

‘What Adam thing?’ Patrick asks.

‘What?’