Page 69 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder

I make it in four. Sothere.

“I thought you said town was just for tourists,” Dad says into his rearview mirror.

“Wearetourists. Also, we want to get out of the house.”

“You sure you don’t just want to check your messages and your TikTok?”

“Dad, I’m not on TikTok.”

“I thought all teenagers had to be on TikTok. I thought there was a law.”

“It’s very loud.”

“That’s supposed to be my line.”

“She’s a lurker,” Dylan says, a genuine betrayal. I forgot I’d told him that.

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.”

“Anyway.”I talk over them both. “I think I’ve lost my phone.”

“That’s a shame,” Dad says.

The phone’s been missing since yesterday, and frankly, neither Dad nor Dylan seems as upset as they should be by this devastating development. I don’t say it to them, but I can’t quite get away from the idea that someone has taken it. The passcode protecting it is the year of my birth (I know, Iknow), which wouldn’t exactly require an elite team of code breakers to solve. But why anyone would want access to my stupid texts and a series of embarrassing selfies in which I try and fail to master a smoky eye, I can’t imagine. Or maybe I just don’t want to.

We slow as the traffic backs up: SUVs full of Perth people, here to visit the allegedly famous bakery (it’s only fine), shop inthe general store (it’s gone hipster chic), and pay six dollars for a lettuce at the supermarket.

“What are you getting in town?” I ask Dad.

“Bakery and supermarket run. If we’re not leaving, we need fresh food. Plus: tampons for your aunt.”

“Too much information, Dad.”

“It’s a natural bodily function,Ruth.” He tilts the rearview mirror to give me a look. “How are those cramps, by the way?”

The mention of Aunty Vinka reminds me of something. Also, Dad’s crack at my (fake) cramps feels unnecessarily loaded with suspicion and I’m keen to change the subject.

“Dad, weird question, but did Aunty Vinka go up to GG’s room the night she died?”

“I don’t know. Not that I know of.” Dad’s distracted, looking for a parking spot, or he’d be more suspicious about why I’m asking. “Why?”

“No reason.”

“Ruth, you remember what I said about leaving this to the cops, right?” Okay, so maybe he’s not that distracted.

“Yes, Dad. I just, uh, Shippy said something about her taking GG a cup of tea. Anyway, how much longerarewe staying here?”

“The police want to interview us again today and Detective Peterson asked us to stay a day or two. I’d say tomorrow at the earliest, but we’ll see.”

“Do the police need to talk to me, too?” Yes, of course I’m having visions of swapping theories with Detective Peterson, culminating in her begging me to drop out of school early to join the police force, but what of it?

A parking spot opens up and Dad’s focus switches to not sideswiping either of the Range Rovers hemming us in. We squeeze out of the car and Dad looks at his watch.

“Synchronize watches and meet back here in, what, an hour?” I wave my naked wrist at him. “Synchronize your phone, then. Okay, sorry, Ruth—synchronize Dylan’s phone. Look, I don’t care what you do. Just be back here at ten-thirty.”

I wait until Dylan and I are alone to ask: “So, where should we go?”