Page 73 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder

“He’s got a better motive than anyone.”

“Money and revenge for the mum who disowned him, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

“I wonder what he went to prison for.”

“It’s got to be bad. Nobody gets disowned for unpaid parking fines.”

Neither of us says theM-word.

“How old would he be?”

“I guess our parents’ age, give or take.”

“We’ve got some time to kill before we meet your dad. Let’s do some internet research while we’ve got coverage. It might bring up something?”

It doesn’t. Or, rather, GooglingMcCullochand thenMcCulloch+jailbrings up a lot of somethings, none of which appear to be related to GG or recent events. It feels wrong in the circumstances, but we actually have fun, sitting on a bench and eating jam doughnuts that Dylan buys. When we get tired of our useless attempts at research, we head to the secondhand bookshop.

“This might be my favorite part of this whole vacation,” Dylan says, browsing the fantasy aisle, a small but growing stack of maybes next to him.

“Can you call it a vacation if someone gets murdered?”

“I think it still counts.”

“D’you remember when my mum would bring us here at Christmas and let us each pick a book?”

“Of course. I used to wish I was part of your family. Just like my mum, I guess.”

“And then you were.” I hate this dumb thing I’ve said before I’ve finished saying it.

“And then I was not—again,” Dylan says lightly.

It’s then that I say the even dumber thing, in a failed effort to make Dylan forget that first dumb thing I said. Seriously, I’d take this part out if I wasn’t committed to giving you all the facts, because you’re going to die when you read it in three…two…one…

“At least we’re not cousins anymore, so that’s cool.”

At least. We’re not. Cousins. Anymore. So. That’s cool.

There’s truly only one way to interpret a comment like that and it’s this:I sometimes think about kissing you, so isn’t it a lucky thing we’re not related?Dylan looks at me like he doesn’t know where to start. Then he puts down the Garth Nix book he’s holding and takes a step toward me, over in the mystery section trying not to vomit.

“Ruth,” he says.

“Kids! I thought I might find you here.” It’s Dad, making the bookshop door jangle. His arms are full of paper bags, he smells like jam and sugar, and there’s a suspicious crusting of white around his lips that suggests he’s either started on the baked goods without us or developed a worrying drug problem (and also, maybe, doesn’t know how to do drugs?). “What are you guys up to?”

“Nothing,” we say, the way guilty people always do.

23

The car ride home isexcruciating. I’m so desperate to avoid looking at Dylan that I deliberately provoke Dad into one of his favorite rants: why bakery vanilla slices (he insists on calling them “snot blocks”) aren’t what they used to be. The drive home is only twenty minutes and Dad can go on about custard-to-pastry ratios for twice that, so I’m not worried about awkward silences until he pulls into a gas station.

“I’ll just fill up and then we can go home,” Dad says.

Something occurs to me, probably later than it should have. “Don’t you have to go into the police station?”

He shakes his head. “I called Detective Peterson in town and she said they’ll come out to the house instead.”

“Right.” I want to prolong this conversation to avoid being alone with Dylan, but there’s really nowhere to go.