Page 76 of A Murder is Going Down

‘Better now I don’t have to pack his school lunchbox,’ he says.

‘You guys have lived together since your mum died?’

‘Yeah, Patrick was only twelve, I think. Elena and I hadn’t lived out of home for that long, so we moved back in. We’ve always been close.’

‘Still, that was sweet of you,’ Lilia says.

‘What else could we do?’ Michael says, bending over to tie a loose shoelace with all the speed of a six-year-old who’s just learned how. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on the foster system to inflict Patrick on them.’

I laugh.

‘Not every brother would do it,’ Lilia says and I know she’s thinking about Felix.

‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’ Michael asks her, finally straightening up.

‘No,’ Lilia says.

We’ve only taken about two steps towards the house when I trip over a crushed soft drink can half-buried in the dirt. I stop myself from falling only by grabbing Lilia’s shoulder, accidentally dragging her into a prickly bush. (I realise this seems implausible, but it’s the truth!) ‘What the hell?’ I say, brushing twigs from my pants.

Lilia, who has somehow emerged from the bush prickle-free and with a flush to her cheeks that makes her look like she’s popped on a slick of blush, is not interested. ‘It’s rubbish,’ she says.

‘Still, we probably shouldn’t leave it,’ Michael says, while making no move towards the can himself.

I pick it up and, as I do, I see a slip of paper caught in the mouth of the can. It’s crushed and the blue ink on the paper has run a bit, but it’s still legible as I open it and read the two words written on it:I’M SORRY.

‘What is it?’ Lilia asks. I show her, but pass the note to Michael.

‘What the hell,’ he says, reading it quickly before handing it back to me. ‘Where did you find this?’

‘Caught in that Coke can.’

‘What do you think it means?’ Michael asks.

‘I don’t know. It might have come from anywhere. Who knows how long it’s been out here.’

But we’re all thinking it.

I’M SORRY.

It’s not agreatsuicide note.

I turn the paper over and can see faintly raised lettering. It’s almost as white as the paper, but I tip it towards the light to make it out:Novotel.

‘Novotel,’ I repeat. ‘Have you heard of it?’

‘The hotel?’ Michael asks.

‘It’s printed on the paper.’ I hand it to him to look.

‘Your vision must be twenty-twenty.’ Michael takes the note back and rubs at his eyes. ‘Is this what middle age feels like?’

‘You’re still better than Aunty Sam,’ I say.

‘She put chutney instead of jam on her toast the other day,’ Michael says. ‘Why doesn’t she get glasses?’

‘That would mean acknowledging the passage of time.’

Lilia takes the note and examines it. ‘Doesn’t this seem a little too convenient?’ she says. ‘We come out here and stumble on, what, a suicide note?’