Page 94 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder

Well, this is some dictator-style rewriting of history right here. “You would have just told me to stop.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely. But I suppose you could have told me where you were that night.”

“When?”

“The night GG died and you were out of your bed. You said you were checking on GG, but you weren’t because I heard her talking to Bec. You weren’t in the bathroom because I was there, and you weren’t out in the garden because Shippy was smoking. So where were you?”

Dad looks like I’ve spat in his face. “You didn’t think thatI—”

I shake my head. “I never thought that.”

“I went out to the paddocks late that night to make a phonecall.”

“Okay.”

“To a friend. A woman.”

I think I’m starting to get it. “Oh.”

“Ruth, I was going to tell you about her, but—”

I put one hand over my face so I don’t have to look at him. Murder I can handle, but an insight into Dad’s love life is too gruesome for me. “Dad, it’s fine, I get it. You don’t have to tell me.” It would be childish, under the circumstances, to be annoyed that my detective skills so utterly failed to detect the presence of a girlfriend in my dad’s life.

“I hope you don’t think it’s too soon.”

“Dad, Mum is alreadymarriedagain—how can it be too soon?”

“Maybe when we get back to Perth you can meet Jane. That’s her name, Jane.” Detective Peterson is back at the table and looking at the floor like there’s a blood-spatter mystery to solve there.

Another puzzle piece drops into my hand. “How late were you out there?” I ask.

Dad looks confused. “A while, I guess. I was on the phone for a bit—we had some things to talk about.”

“What about the storm?”

“I had my jacket, but there was hardly any rain and the lightning didn’t get that close.”

I want to ask Dad if he’d be this Zen aboutmebeing out in a paddock with lightning flying around, but I’ve got other things on my mind. “Was anyone up when you got home?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“And you came in the front door?”

“Yeah. I dropped my keys right on the doorstep and had tohunt for them in the dark.” He frowns, like maybe he’s trying to remember. “I thought I heard something, like somebody might have still been up, but there was nobody there when I finally found my keys and came inside.”

I think about what it was that made Sasha stash the box under the floorboards—a dumb move, however you want to spin it—and whether it could have been as simple as the sound of Dad coming home. Of course, if I’m right, that means Sasha had hidden the box and was lurking in the house when Dad came in. He wouldn’t have wanted to risk retrieving the box with someone awake in the house and a dead body upstairs; he’d have slipped out as quickly and quietly as possible. It’s a theory and one Dad’s not going to want to hear (Ibarely want to hear it), but, much as I’d love to impress Detective Peterson with my deductive skills, for now I want to take advantage of Dad’s chatty mood. I also really don’t want to think about what might have happened if Dad had run into Sasha that night.

“What about the money problems?” I ask.

“What?”

“You canceled the streaming services and sold your guitar. Dylan says you want to sell the house. Is there something goingon?”

Dad gets a bit more uncomfortable. “I’ve been thinking about buying a new place, that’s all. And you know I haven’t touched that guitar in years.”

“Oh?”