Page 17 of A Murder is Going Down

Then

I cram the backpack filled with Elena’s stuff into the crate at the back of my bike with optimism and an occy strap. The extra weight means that even the ride back up the driveway to the road feels like an effort.

Number of important clues uncovered at Felix and Elena’s: zero. Number of newly discovered muscles in my bum and thighs: at least two.

‘We need to speak to everyone who was here the night Felix died,’ Patrick says.

‘What’s thiswebusiness?’

Patrick looks at me and his front wheel clips a bush. ‘Shit!’ he swears at the bush, which seems a little harsh on the shrub. Then to me: ‘You don’t want to know how your brother died?’

‘I know how my brother died. He drowned.’

‘You don’t want to know if someone did it?’

‘If someonedid it– someone other than Felix, I mean – then of course I want to know. I’m just not sure that a pair of teens on bikes is the crack team to blow this case wide open. The police can figure it out, if there even is anitto figure out.’

You can’t tell, but every other word in this little chat is punctuated by a huff or a puff, or sometimes both. Patrick and I are riding alongside each other, but only one of us is making it look easy.

‘The police don’t care about what really happened,’ Patrick says. ‘They’ll ask some token questions, file a report. It’s not like it is in the movies where cops go rogue and put their whole life on hold to find some missing dog or something. I have—’

‘What cop shows are youwatching?’

‘—some free time and I plan to use that time to help my sister get the money she deserves.’

I think about that for as long as it takes me to catch my breath. ‘You really like each other, huh?’

Patrick gives me such a long look he nearly rides me off the road. ‘She’s my sister.’

‘Siblings aren’t always close,’ I say, thinking of Felix and wondering how my life might have been different with a brother who’d been closer to me in age or less … Felix.

‘Does that mean youaregoing to help me?’ he asks.

‘Why do you even want me to?’

Patrick swerves in front of me so suddenly I have to squeeze the brakes as a Tesla silently speeds past, close enough that I could reach out and touch it.

‘Arsehole,’ he says, dropping back to ride alongside me. ‘Sorry. What did you say?’

‘Why do you even want my help? I know I’m the brains of the operation, but you don’t seem like you need help to ask complete strangers rude questions.’

‘Are you forgetting the night of the stolen profiteroles?’ Patrick asks.

‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘Youstole them.’

‘Only because you distracted everyone with that stupid juggling trick.’

‘Exactly. We’re a good team.’

This time I look at Patrick so long I nearly clip the kerb, ignoring the prickling in my cheeks because for once my blush can be passed off as exertion.

Then Patrick ruins it. ‘Also, Elena and Felix’s friends might be more likely to talk to Felix’s grieving sister than, well, me.’

Now we’re talking.

We keep riding and I consider what Patrick is asking. If I refuse, what’s the alternative: three weeks with noschool, no Lilia, no Ben and no distractions of any kind? If I say no to Patrick, then what exactly am I going to do with my spare time? Try to reconnect with the handful of second-tier schoolfriends I’ve let slide away because I didn’t think I needed anyone else but Lilia and Ben? Finally get back on Duolingo? Start a podcast?