I shoot him a questioning look, but instead of answering he clears his throat. That’s when it hits me: He’s naming me.
I’mwhat he sees.
Maybe it’s because our faces are so close together, but my gut is telling me he could have easily said “game cabinet” or “light switch” instead.
It feels like a challenge, or an invitation. At the very least, he’s asking a question: Am I ready to playthisgame?
Okay, then. Time to be bold. I can totally do this.
“Nostrils,” I say back at him, opting for the joke instead.
Way to rise to the occasion, really put myself out there! I pretty much have a black belt in social skills.
His mouth twitches, like he’s suppressing a grin. “Freckle.”
I want to ask him which one he’s talking about, but I need to save my breath. This time I’ll say something like “eyelashes,” which will obviously be code for “What beautiful eyes you have, Felix.”
On some level I’m aware that we’re not alone in the room, but my focus has narrowed to the two of us. My lips part—and Bernie chooses that moment to burst in, followed closely by Detective Ortiz. In the absence of pearls, she settles for clutching the decorative zipper toggle on her pastel track suit as she gasps in horror.
It’s the loudest sound in the room until Mr. Namura points at her and says, “The hostile neighbor.”
“I beg your pardon?” Bernie screeches, like that’s the weirdest part of this scenario.
“We’re playing the name game,” Mrs. A informs her, struggling to a sitting position before shoving her mask back to the top of her head like a visor. “It’s very centering. Sometimes you just need to be reminded that you have a body.” She smiles at Bernie, but a second later her expression turns thoughtful. “Meaning your own body. Not abodybody.”
“Only living bodies here,” Mr. Namura adds, on what is clearly meant to be a reassuring note.
“Are you seeing this?” Bernie demands of Detective Ortiz. “They’re running some kind of death cult. That must be what happened to Bradley!”
I’m not sure how she thinks the name game could have turned fatal, but Bernie strikes me as the type to sling accusations first and consider the facts never.
At least Detective Ortiz doesn’t appear to be dancing to her tune. He’s too busy navigating a minefield of limbs on his way to the pool table, where he bends forward with his hands behind his back, inspecting something I can’t see.
“Where did this come from?” the detective asks. He pulls a pencil from his pocket, using it to lift something off the green felt.
Everyone snaps to attention at the serious note in his voice. I scramble to my knees for a closer look, with Felix right beside me. From here it looks like a goth kazoo that someone bedazzled with rhinestones. Mixed messages on the aesthetic front.
“Is that one of those vapes?” Malia looks from me to Felix, seeking our expertise as representatives of The Youth.
“It’s Bradley’s EpiPen,” Bernie gasps.
“Really?” Mrs. A asks. “I’ve never seen one like that. What does it say on the side?”
Now that she mentions it, the rhinestones do seem to form letters.
“It’s B-R-O,” Bernie snaps, as if that should have been obvious.
Felix poses the question on everyone’s mind. “He bedazzled his EpiPen with the word ‘bro’?”
“They’re hisinitials. Bradley Ryan Odell.” Bernie glares at us as if daring anyone to disagree.
“Well, I’m glad it turned up in the end.” Mrs. A brings her hands together in athat’s-thatgesture. “I’m sure his family will be happy to have it back. Maybe it will bring them a sense of closure.”
Bernie rolls her eyes. “Don’t bother with the innocent act! I think we all know what happened here, with your sick games. It’s always poison this and tampering with the evidence that. Murder, murder, murder.”
“It’s not what it sounds like,” I tell the detective. “They onlypretendto poison people. Like playing charades but with, you know, murder.”
“And I have never poisoned anyone.” Mr. Namura thumps himself in the chest. “Not on purpose. Or accidentally,” he adds after an unfortunate pause. “The banana pudding was not my fault.”
