Page 84 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder

“I’m not sure they feel good about being in a car with any of us for three hours. Shippy said he’d rather risk motion sickness.”

“Fair enough.”

Dad does that peering-into-my-soul thing he whips out sometimes, and, clearly, he doesn’t love what he finds there, because his expression gets very focused. “I was going to go with Vinka to help with Nick, but I can stay here if you’d rather.”

“We’ll be okay. How long will you be?”

“Not long. Are you sure it can wait until we get back?”

“Sure.”

Dad kisses the top of my head and goes out the front door. I lie back down on the couch, wondering if I’ve made a mistake not showing him the video right away. (On balance, probably yes: A lot of things might have gone differently if I’d just told Dad the truth.) But I’m tired and my thoughts are mushy.

Dylan sits up as soon as the cars drive away. Faking, then.

“Man, my head hurts,” he says. “I think I got about three hours’ sleep. You wriggle.”

“You could have gone to your own bed.”

“And leave you scared and alone?”

“Whatever. You snore.”

“I do not.”

“You do.” This is a lie, by the way, but how would he know? And how dare he say I’m a wriggler when what I was really doing was constantly readjusting my body in an attempt to not fall off the couch entirely or knee Dylan in the balls. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried so hard.

“You didn’t tell your dad.”

“I knew you were faking. Should I have?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m awake yet.”

“We should tell everyone together. Nick’s getting out of thehospital, so we’ll tell them when they get back.” (If you’re getting a bit tired of Nick’s whole deal, let me assure you he really is coming home, just in time to…well, you’ll see.)

“Sounds like a plan.” Dylan closes his eyes again.

“Then we take it to the cops.”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbles.

“Are you seriously going back to sleep?”

“Are you seriously not?”

I am not. I get up, put on the kettle, wash my face, brush my teeth, and put bread in the toaster. The moment he smells hot toast and cold butter, Dylan decides he’s hungry too, and we wind up having quite a pleasant little breakfast at the dining table, GG’s phone between us like a gun in a play.

“Should we watch it again?” he asks.

“I sort of don’t want to.”

“I know.”

“But maybe? I’m still not sure I have it straight.”

“It made sense last night.”

“I know.”