I show them a text I got from him late yesterday afternoon. I say I only saw it today. Which is true. Saint must have sent it after he did the deed. It says:I did my best, Becks. I’m sorry.
The police take one look at the message and give each other a knowing look. I know right then there won’t be any significant investigation into the death of Peter Beckett.
*
I head straight over to my mom’s house as soon as the police leave. It’s afternoon and the girls have just got home from school.
“Becks!” they screech when they see me.
They both run at me and hug me so hard, they nearly knock me clean over. I sweep them up, one in each arm, and crush them to me in a tangle of blonde pigtails and skinny arms and legs. I hold them so tight, they both go quiet for a second.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” asks Leighton.
“I missed you both so much. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
“It’s not your fault. You can’t help it that you got sick. Unless you weren’t washing your hands. If you weren’t washing your hands, it might be your fault,” says Emelia earnestly.
I start laughing. “I did wash my hands, I promise.”
“Then it’s not your fault.” Emelia seems completely certain. “We missed you, too.”
“Yeah, but we liked the jokes.”
“Yes, we loved the jokes.”
What now?
I have no idea what they’re talking about, but I know how to buy time when it comes to these two. “Which joke was your favorite?”
“I know, I know. I remember my favorite one,” says Leighton. “Why don’t you hear a pterodactyl when it goes to the toilet?”
“Why not?” I ask.
“’Cause the P is silent.” They say in unison, and then fall about laughing. “Tell us another one, Becks. Tell us one now!”
“Tell you what, I’ll send you one later tonight, just before your bedtime.”
Thanks a lot, Asshole.
Guess I’ll be adding another thing to my daily to-do list.
*
Lacey arrives at my place in a shroud of black in the evening. She used to call my uncle The Most Boring Man Who Never Lived, but she’s always had a morbid fascination with death. She seems in high spirits, but the second she sees my face, she freezes.
She takes my face in two icy hands, holding it tightly, forcing me to look at her. “What the fuck happened, Boo?”
“S-suicide, they think.”
“I’m not talking about Peter. I’m talking about you.”
“I’m sorry about everyth… I sent muffins. Did you get the muffins?”
“I got the muffins. I ate the muffins. Don’t try and bullshit me with bullshit about muffins.”
I give her a wide-eyed shrug and do my best to look innocent of all charges. She leans in close to my face and sniffs at me ferociously. She knows it scares the hell out of me when she does that. She has a nose like a bloodhound. I know rationally there’s no way she can smell mayhem or murder on me, but it rattles me anyway.
