THEN
I cram the backpack filled with Elena’s stuff into the crate at the back of my bike with optimism and an occy strap. The extra weight means that even the ride back up the driveway to the road feels like an effort.
Number of important clues uncovered at Felix and Elena’s: zero. Number of newly discovered muscles in my bum and thighs: at least two.
‘What’s this we business?’
‘I know how my brother died. He drowned.’
‘You don’t want to know if someone did it?’
‘If someone did it – someone other than Felix, I mean – then of course I want to know. I’m just not sure that a pair of teens on bikes is the crack team to blow this case wide open. The police can figure it out, if there even is an it to figure out.’
You can’t tell, but every other word in this little chat is punctuated by a huff or a puff, or sometimes both. Patrick and I are riding alongside each other, but only one of us is making it look easy.
‘The police don’t care about what really happened,’ Patrick says. ‘They’ll ask some token questions, file a report. It’s not like it is in the movies where cops go rogue and put their whole life on hold to find some missing dog or something. I have—’
‘What cop shows are you watching?’
‘—some free time and I plan to use that time to help my sister get the money she deserves.’
I think about that for as long as it takes me to catch my breath. ‘You really like each other, huh?’
Patrick gives me such a long look he nearly rides me off the road. ‘She’s my sister.’
‘Siblings aren’t always close,’ I say, thinking of Felix and wondering how my life might have been different with a brother who’d been closer to me in age or less … Felix.
‘Does that mean you are going to help me?’ he asks.
‘Why do you even want me to?’
Patrick swerves in front of me so suddenly I have to squeeze the brakes as a Tesla silently speeds past, close enough that I could reach out and touch it.
‘Arsehole,’ he says, dropping back to ride alongside me. ‘Sorry. What did you say?’
‘Why do you even want my help? I know I’m the brains of the operation, but you don’t seem like you need help to ask complete strangers rude questions.’
‘Are you forgetting the night of the stolen profiteroles?’ Patrick asks.
‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘You stole them.’
‘Only because you distracted everyone with that stupid juggling trick.’
‘Exactly. We’re a good team.’
This time I look at Patrick so long I nearly clip the kerb, ignoring the prickling in my cheeks because for once my blush can be passed off as exertion.
Then Patrick ruins it. ‘Also, Elena and Felix’s friends might be more likely to talk to Felix’s grieving sister than, well, me.’
Now we’re talking.
We keep riding and I consider what Patrick is asking.
If I refuse, what’s the alternative: three weeks with no school, no Lilia, no Ben and no distractions of any kind?
If I say no to Patrick, then what exactly am I going to do with my spare time?
Try to reconnect with the handful of second-tier schoolfriends I’ve let slide away because I didn’t think I needed anyone else but Lilia and Ben?
Finally get back on Duolingo? Start a podcast?
‘I’ll help you,’ I say as we arrive at the train station. Patrick smiles like he never doubted it, which nearly makes me change my mind. ‘But,’ I say, ‘I think we have to be open to all possibilities, even if that means that Felix did kill himself and Elena doesn’t get the insurance money.’
The train arrives just as we reach the platform, so there’s a scramble while we jog and swipe, and Patrick accidentally runs his bike tyre over my foot.
‘Also, you can’t be a rude weirdo to everyone, especially Elena’s friends,’ I finish as we choose our seats. There’s only one other person in the carriage: a middle-aged woman whose eyes flicker up from her phone screen to look us up and down.
‘I don’t care if people think I’m a rude weirdo.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘You’d be surprised how much easier life becomes if you stop caring about what people think of you,’ he says.
‘What do you suggest we do?’ I ask.
‘We could get Elena to introduce us to some of her friends; obviously we’re only interested in those who were at the party. We should also try to find out something about Felix’s mental health. If he was suicidal, there might be medical records. He would have seen a doctor or a psychologist.’
‘Plenty of people who are depressed never see anyone about it,’ I feel compelled to point out, mostly because I want the woman in the carriage, who is clearly eavesdropping, to know I am a thoughtful and sensitive person.
‘Sure, but it would be good to know. Maybe Elena can tell us who his GP was?’
I laugh. I can’t help it. ‘I know his GP.’
Patrick looks impressed, as though I’ve made a Sherlock Holmes–level deduction about a suspect’s location based on the consistency of their cigarette ash. (Side note: vapes have really killed ash-related deductions.) ‘How?’
‘It’s Ben’s dad.’
‘Your Ben? Your ex-Ben, I mean? The Ben formerly known as Yours?’
‘Don’t call him that.’
‘His dad was your brother’s GP?’ Patrick mimes being sick. ‘Isn’t that a bit incestuous?’
‘Felix wasn’t sleeping with him,’ I say. ‘So far as I know, anyway.’
‘Yikes.’
‘Can we try to leave Ben out of this? I’ll talk to the party guests with you. I’ll sift through the cigarette ash and make appropriately brilliant deductions—’
‘Wait, what cop shows are you watchi—’
‘But let’s only go the doctor route if we absolutely have to.’
‘You’re really in?’
‘I’m in.’
‘Yes!’ Patrick fist-pumps dramatically. ‘I knew the wedding wasn’t a one-off. Heidi, we’re going to have fun.’
I know he’s joking, so I make a whatever face back at him and hope he’s not a good enough detective to see how nice it feels to have someone express any pleasure in my company. It’s been a while.