Page 97 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder

“…chakra,” Aunty Vinka is saying. “I felt it from the start.”

“Vinka, you’re so full of it,” Dad says. “Let’s save it for the DNA test. No online tests either. I want to talk to someone wearing a white lab coat.” He pats me on the head. “What a day. Ruth, how are you?”

“I’m okay.” I’m seriouslynotokay. I’m trying to process this latest development that (a)Bec thought that Shippy might have murdered GG, (b)she tried to cover it up to protect him, and (c)he seemscoolwith it? And (d)Dylan figured it out withoutme.

Dylan looks across the table at me and I try to decode the message in his eyes. Is he asking me not to tell Dad what his mum did? Is he telling me I can if I want to? Is he just, like me,utterly exhausted and trying not to face-plant into the dregs of the hot chocolate and drown?

“I think I’m going to lie down,” I say.

Dylan catches me on the stairs. “Thanks,” he says.

“For what?”

“Not saying anything to your dad.”

“The cops might still figure it out.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you think Sasha will survive that snakebite?”

Dylan shrugs. “Is it bad that I don’t really care? You solved it—our part in this is over.”

“We solved it.”

“Sherlock never gives Watson any credit.”

“So, you admit you’re the Watson in this relationship?”

“I’ve always been the Watson.” Dylan gives me a sideways smile as we reach the landing outside my bedroom. “About the Lisa thing,” he says.

I put my hands over my face. “I’m too tired to talk about this. I just want to go to bed.” I listen back to what I’ve just said. “To sleep! Alone!”

“Ruth!” Dylan sounds like he’s laughing, but I’m not moving my hands to find out. “It’s okay. Go sleep. We can talk about this later. If you want to.”

A pause. “I want to. Later.”

“Good.” I’m not sure exactly what I’m agreeing to. More hand-holding? Kissing? A define-the-relationship conversation? It all feels only marginally less intense than solving a not-quite-murder mystery and helping to bring an attemptedmurderer to justice but also a perfectly acceptable task to put off to another day.

In my room I ignore the creepy figurines (I’ve faced so much worse) and crawl into my bed, closing my eyes. When I wake up it’s evening and my eyes feel gritty with sleep. Dad has woken me with news: Dinner is ready, Rob is out of the ICU, and Nick has broken not one but both of his arms.