Chapter 10
I wake up to a hand over my mouth, and my first thought is that the killer has come back for me.
My second thought is that GG wasn’t killed quietly in bed—she was on the floor next to her bed, like maybe she tried to fight back or run away, and am I seriously going to go more quietly than an old lady?
Nope. I open my mouth as wide as I can and bite down on as much soft flesh as my teeth can find.
The hand disappears and so does my readied scream.
“Dylan, what the hell.”
“I didn’t want you to shout or anything.” Dylan is whispering, and I automatically drop my own voice to mimic him.
“And you thought the simplest way to achieve that was to play at being a murderer in a house where someone was recently murdered.”
He holds up his hand. “Mistakes were made.”
I sit up in bed. The light coming through the window of my bedroom is the watery evening kind, filtered through old-fashioned lace curtains that would be fluttering very prettily right now if there was any kind of a breeze.
“What time is it?”
“I don’t know. Five?”
“Did I fall asleep?”
“You were out of it. I did knock.”
“Why?”
“I guess you were tired.”
“No, why did you knock? Why are you here? Why are we whispering?”
“I came to say—well, never mind, and then I heard them.” Dylan points at the window and puts his finger first to his lips and then to his ear. I stop trying to talk and listen instead, pulling the edge of the curtain back enough so I can see the tops of two heads.
“So?” I whisper.
“They’re talking about Shippy,” Dylan whispers back, climbing onto my bed without asking, jamming his body up against the window on the opposite side from me, and sticking his head through the curtain.
Possibly I should give him a hard time about his tantrum.
Or maybe I’m supposed to apologize for fairly transparently suggesting his girlfriend is cheating on him.
As a compromise, pretending neither happened works for me.
Repression gets such a bad rap when, in my experience, it can be super useful.
“Who’s out there?”
“Your dad and Aunty Vinka.”
What are they doing? I mouth more than say.
Instead of playing at mime, Dylan leans over and puts his mouth on my ear—I’m talking lips on lobe—so he can whisper directly into it. His breath raises hairs on the back of my neck. “Trying to fix the sprinklers.”
My dad is from the Call a Plumber school of pipe repair, and Aunty Vinka’s idea of home repair involves a smudge stick, so this is out of character. I push my face close to the open part of the window and see Dad regarding a couple of bits of pipe as though they’ve personally wronged him.
“Does this attach to this bit, do you think?” He taps one against the other. “Why is everything held together with electrical tape?” Then he answers his own question. “Dad.”
I lean across to Dylan but stop short of tasting lobe. Now that they’re talking about the sprinklers, I don’t think we’re going to pick up a clue unless it’s about my grandad’s shoddy approach to home repair.
“What did they say about Shippy?”
“They decided to call the cops,” Dylan whispers back. “Your dad wanted to call tonight, but Vinka said we should wait for tomorrow.”
“Who won?”
The rise and fall of Dylan’s shoulders says he doesn’t know.
In the moment of silence a sentence from below carries clearly—“What about the kids?”—and we both lean back toward the window.
“They do seem to be taking an unhealthy interest in this. It can’t be good for them.”
“Ruth’s like a dog with a bone with this stuff. She doesn’t let things go. She’d make a great reporter, actually,” Dad says, which is one of the nicer things he’s ever said about me. Is it possible people say nice things about me when I’m not around all the time?
“Maybe you should take her back to Perth?”
“Now that Shippy’s gone missing with my car, I’m not sure how I’d manage that one. Silver lining: At least we know Nick couldn’t have done it. Shame. I’d quite like to see Nick charged with murder. I don’t trust anyone that handsome.”
“Five minutes ago you said if anyone in the house did it, it was Shippy,” says Aunty Vinka. I look at Dylan, checking for a reaction, but his face is as blank as a Hollywood star being asked about war in the Middle East.
“You agreed,” says Dad.
“He’s got such a…aura. I know you don’t…in these things, Andy.” Aunty Vinka’s voice goes in and out, like she’s moving around.
“Because they’re made up, Vinx.”
“But it’s true. I warned Bec but she didn’t want to hear it.”
“She and I are aligned on that. Oh, bloody hell, check it out: There’s a pen holding these two bits of pipe together.”
“What do we do with that?”
“Hear me out on this, but could we just…add more tape?”
There’s a long pause.
“Screw it, why not?”
There’s no talking for a bit, and Dylan and I look at each other, not wanting to say anything in case we’re overheard.
When Dad speaks again, his voice has gone serious.
I don’t know if it’s the kind of change Dylan would notice, but it’s obvious to me.
“What do you make of Gertie’s missing pain meds? ”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, where did they go? Can you put some more tape here?”
“Does it matter? Gertie didn’t die of a drug overdose.”
“It’s odd, though.”
“The idea that anyone could kill a living thing is odd to me.” Aunty Vinka is sounding pensive.
“I’m begging you: Don’t make this about veganism.”
“I wasn’t going to. Hey, careful with that thing.”
“There’s nothing you want to tell me?”
“What are you saying—argh!” I risk a look to see Aunty Vinka bent over, grabbing her hand. “It’s okay. I just stabbed myself with that bit of wire.”
“You and Nick make such a great couple.”
The front door bangs and there’s a crunch of gravel.
“How’s it going out here?” Aunty Bec asks.
“We were talking about Gertie’s missing meds,” Dad says, not wasting time on small talk, which, as an eavesdropper with a slightly stiff neck, I appreciate. “You didn’t see anyone take them?”
“Of course not.”
“Speaking of suspicious characters: Any sign of Shippy?”
“Has it even occurred to you that Shippy might be a second victim?” Aunty Bec says. “One person has already been killed in this house. Why not two?”
Finally, someone is on the same page as me. I elbow Dylan, who mimes being sick.
“Why’s my car missing, though?” Dad asks.
“Shippy took it to meet the killer,” Aunty Bec says, but flippantly, not as though she believes her boyfriend is really dead.
“Why?”
“Or the killer came here, killed Shippy, and stole the car.”
“Then how did they get here?”
“Who?”
“The killer. If he—or she, let’s not be sexist; I’m sure women make great murderers too—drove the car away after killing Shippy, how did they get here in the first place?”
“Can we drop this?”
“Sorry for trying to argue that it’s more likely your boyfriend is a murderer than that he’s dead. Which would you prefer?”
A few moments later the front door slams.
“Andy.”
“Too far, I know.”
Dad and Aunty Vinka trudge inside, and Dylan and I sit back from the window.
“Was that worth waking you up for?”
It was, but why would I let him know that when his ego is already so very robust? Instead I ask the question he dodged earlier. “Why did you come up here anyway? You never said.”
Dylan shakes his head, uncrossing and crossing his long legs awkwardly, an adolescent Bambi. “I went for a walk and called Lisa.”
“About Paul What’s-his-face?” Why am I pretending I can’t remember his name? On my deathbed I’ll remember the name Paul Rainbow.
“She said we should talk when I’m home. I think you were right.”
“Oh,” I say. Then: “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I guess things have been a bit crap for a—” Dylan stops talking.
“What?” But then I hear it too: tires on the driveway. I look out the window. Then, without waiting to see if Dylan is behind me, I run out of the room and down the stairs.
Everyone else is outside when I skid to a stop behind Dad to stare at the same thing they are: the car pulling in beside the house. Our car. The engine cuts off. The driver’s door opens and Shippy, a little red in the face and chapped on the lips, gets out.
“Hey, guys,” he says. “You won’t believe the day I’ve had.”
Then the passenger-side door opens.