Page 65 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder

“You couldn’t have seen her go into Gertie’s room from downstairs,” I point out.

“I didn’t see her go in,” Shippy says, “but I saw her go up the stairs and then I heard her say something to Gertie and Gertie say something back.” He looks pleased with himself. “Now go inside. I don’t want to be accused of murdering you via secondhand smoke.”

“One more question,” I say.

“Oh, c’mon.”

I ignore him and direct my question to Bec. This is the real reason I came out here. “Did Dylan know?”

She meets my eyes, and I wonder if I’ll know the truth when I hear it or recognize a lie.

“No,” she says. And, no, I have no idea if she’s lying.

I start to go back inside because Dad is, surely, mere moments away from filing a missing-person report on me and the bathroom mess is probably mostly cleaned up.

“Hold on,” Bec says.

“What?”

But then Shippy and I see it too: headlights coming up the driveway. (Lotta unexpected drop-ins for a supposedly remote farmhouse, I’ve got to say.)

“Seriously?” Shippy says, maybe thinking the same thing.

Bec raises her voice.“Guys!”she calls, her voice almost singsong. “We’ve got avisitor!”

21

When Sasha gets out ofhis truck, my first thought is that he must have heard about Bec, before I realize how little sense that makes. For one thing, I’m not sure he was ever aware Bec was (supposedly) Dad and Aunty Vinka’s half sister. For another, everyone who knows about the Situation is here, with no way of communicating with the outside world, short of semaphore, and I think I would have noticed someone up on the roof, thrashing about with flags.

Nobody looks happy to see Sasha, but I’m the only one who’s actively rude about it: I bolt inside before he’s even slammed the door of his truck.

“Go away,” Dylan says when I bang on his door.

“Sasha’s here!”

“What?”

“Sasha’s here!”

“Why?”

“I don’t know! Come on!”

Another pause. “I don’t care.”

Dylan’s room doesn’t have a lock, so I slide the door open, forgetting in the moment that I might not want to see what a teenage boy is up to alone in his bedroom. Fortunately for all concerned, what he’s up to is scowling into his phone, which—in case you’ve forgotten—doesn’t even have internet access. This is too tragic.

“Come on.”

“I’m not coming.”

“Are you going to sit here stewing about your mum lying to you and your girlfriend cheating on you, or are you going to find out why Sasha is here?”

That sounded better in my head.

But it works, because Dylan rolls off his bed and follows me back to the kitchen, although he makes a big deal of not sitting next to me.

“Ruth,” Dad says, “do we think it’s your bedtime?”