Page 16 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder

“What does that mean?”

“That it’s complicated, I guess.”

“Those were her exact words: ‘This is going to get messy’?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you think she knows something?”

Dylan looks directly at me, decoding my question with the ease of someone who has known me for too long. “I’m pretty sure she didn’t bash Gertie over the head with her typewriter, if that’s what you mean.”

“Wow.”

“You asked.”

I consider it. Aunty Bec doesn’t seem like a psychopathic killer, but in books it’s always the last person you’d suspect. Although, technically, the last person I’d suspect is myself, so by this logic I guess I did it. (This is not a confession, and while I’m at it, the fact that I’m readingThe Murder of Roger Ackroyd,a mystery in which, famously, the narrator is the murderer—sorry for the spoiler—is not a clue or anything, so just calm down, although, also, good on you for noticing.)

“Did you see anything on the night GG died?” I ask, thinking of the smoker in the garden, Dad’s empty bed, and the conversation I overheard in GG’s room.

“Not anything weird.” Dylan shifts uncomfortably on the bed, then pulls my sleep T-shirt out from under one thigh and chucks it at me. “How long do you think we’re going to be here?”

“Like, here in the house?”

“Yeah.”

“A couple more days, I guess.”

Dylan makes a noise like his footy team has just lost in the dying minutes of the grand final.

“Why do you care so much? At least we get to miss school.”

“There’s nothing to do here, that’s all.”

“Like you have things to do in Perth.”

“I have things to do.”

“Yeah, right.” I look more closely at Dylan. “What is it? What’s so important you’re not stoked to get an extra-long weekend?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make lucky guesses like you’re a psychic at a town fair.”

“What fairs have you been going to that have psychics at them?”

“Look, I know you’re going to roll your eyes, but it’s the school ball on Friday.”

“And you’re going?” Dylan and I aren’t as close as we were, but I know him well enough to be confident that wearing a suit and dancing to music that doesn’t involve someone screaming directly into a microphone about their PERSONAL PAIN is not his idea of a fun night.

He looks shifty. “Lisa wants to go.”

“Oh.” Lisa is Dylan’s girlfriend. I’ve never met her—he doesn’t bring her to family stuff—but I’ve seen her on Instagram, with her bad hair extensions. “Do youwantto go?”

“Sure.” He’s about as believable as an actual psychic.

“Are you guys…okay?” This is fifty percent me being caring and fifty percent nosiness, because I’ve had my suspicions for a while about Dylan’s girlfriend (and this isnotabout my historic crush, if that’s what you’re thinking). I may not know Lisa, but, like I say, I know her social media. Until recently,her content has been faux artsy stuff: pictures of trash in the lake, videos of her and her friends mucking around, heavily filtered photos of her and Dylan squinting into the sun. The past few months, though, there has been a growing number of increasingly thirsty selfies, Dylan hasn’t shown up in forever, and the comments have been…interesting.