Page 30 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder

There’s a long pause.

“Screw it, why not?”

There’s no talking for a bit, and Dylan and I look at each other, not wanting to say anything in case we’re overheard. When Dad speaks again, his voice has gone serious. I don’tknow if it’s the kind of change Dylan would notice, but it’s obvious to me. “What do you make of Gertie’s missing pain meds?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, where did they go? Can you put some more tape here?”

“Does it matter? Gertie didn’t die of a drug overdose.”

“It’s odd, though.”

“The idea that anyone could kill a living thing is odd to me.” Aunty Vinka is sounding pensive.

“I’m begging you: Don’t make this about veganism.”

“I wasn’t going to. Hey, careful with that thing.”

“There’s nothing you want to tell me?”

“What are you saying—argh!” I risk a look to see Aunty Vinka bent over, grabbing her hand. “It’s okay. I just stabbed myself with that bit of wire.”

“You and Nick make such a great couple.”

The front door bangs and there’s a crunch of gravel.

“How’s it going out here?” Aunty Bec asks.

“We were talking about Gertie’s missing meds,” Dad says, not wasting time on small talk, which, as an eavesdropper with a slightly stiff neck, I appreciate. “You didn’t see anyone take them?”

“Of course not.”

“Speaking of suspicious characters: Any sign of Shippy?”

“Has it even occurred to you that Shippy might be a second victim?” Aunty Bec says. “One person has already been killed in this house. Why not two?”

Finally, someone is on the same page as me. I elbow Dylan, who mimes being sick.

“Why’s my car missing, though?” Dad asks.

“Shippy took it to meet the killer,” Aunty Bec says, but flippantly, not as though she believes her boyfriend is really dead.

“Why?”

“Or the killer came here, killed Shippy,andstole the car.”

“Then how did they get here?”

“Who?”

“The killer. If he—or she, let’s not be sexist; I’m sure women make great murderers too—drove the car away after killing Shippy, how did they get here in the first place?”

“Can we drop this?”

“Sorry for trying to argue that it’s more likely your boyfriend is a murderer than that he’s dead. Which would you prefer?”

A few moments later the front door slams.