Page 91 of A Murder is Going Down

‘Patrick.’

‘I want you to wake at two a.m. wondering what life-changing bit of advice I might have—’

‘Patrick.’

‘This is my advice, which I’m already slightly regretting. The thing is, Lilia did something super shitty to you.’

‘Correct.’

‘But if you think you can forgive her, you should try. When you’re a kid, you think best friends come along every day, but they don’t.’ This coming from the guy who called Lilia a dipshit in the car.

‘You’re only a year older than me,’ I say. ‘You don’t get to use the wordkidon me.’

‘Maybe I was comparing you to a baby goat.’

‘What is it with you and goats?’ I ask. Patrick looks confused and I realise, too late, that the horror movie goat reference was part of a conversation he doesn’t know I’ve heard. I keep talking before he has time to wonder what I’m on about. ‘Friends are one thing, but ex-boyfriends …’

‘They reallyarelike buses,’ he says.

‘Because it hurts when they run you down?’

‘I was thinking more like they’re unreliable and smell bad.’

Michael and I deposit our boxes – his filled with books, mine with crockery – by the front door at the same time. He’s wearing Patrick’s jacket again and I remember something I meant to ask him days ago.

‘Do you have the note and the thread we found outside? I meant to give them a proper look.’

‘Ah.’ Michael looks embarrassed. ‘I forgot to take them out of the jacket pocket and Patrick put it through the wash. I must have left the pocket open a little because they were both gone when I took the clothes out.’

‘Oh.’ I don’t know what else to say. Michael has lost our only two clues and, honestly, he doesn’t seem to feel as bad about it as he should. He hasn’t even apologised.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘They were probably nothing.’ I try not to look like I want to tear open the box at my feet and break every plate over his head.

‘Sorry,’ he says again, so my poker face probably sucks.

‘It’s fine,’ I lie. Hey, if everyone else is going to do it, why not me?

Now

The intercom buzzes. ‘We’re nearly there,’ I say. ‘Five minutes maybe.’

Marianne watches me. ‘Who is that on the intercom, exactly?’ she asks.

‘Nobody you know.’ I’m only half-lying.

Then

Felix and Elena’s life takes us most of the day to pack up. Since there’s no hope of fitting it all in Aunty Sam’s car, we leave the pile of boxes where they are and go home via the café – to reward ourselves for our hard work. Also, Patrick and Michael claim to have matching, crippling, caffeine withdrawal headaches.

We’re at the same café where Lilia recorded Patrick and Elena, making it hard for me not to think about the conversation I’ve done my best to avoid thinking about.

I’m waiting for my hot chocolate to arrive when the bell over the door jingles and in walk Ben and Lilia. I must have been a terrorist, an incel or someone who talks on their phone at the cinema in a former life to deserve this kind of luck. Of course, they spot us right away and come over.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask them, because I’m tired, grumpy and in the mood to act like a toddler with a tummy ache.

‘I’ve been calling you,’ Lilia says. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’