“Okay.” I take the pencil, writing my name and age. “What else?”
“Motive?”
I nod, adding a new line and the wordCREEP. Can you say that about a dead person? Felix did say no holding back.
“Although if people murdered every guy who made them uncomfortable with their gross comments or how they look at us or yell things out of passing cars, there would be a trail of dead bodies all over town,” I point out.
“We suck,” he agrees, and I appreciate that he didn’t make excuses, or trot out the old “not all men” argument. We’re talking about the lowest common denominator here. To make it math-y.
“But I didn’t know he had an EpiPen. Or allergies.” I draw a question mark under the motive, hand stilling as a new thought occurs to me. “Wait. Is that what that lump was? In his pants?”
Felix chokes on his own spit.
“By hisankle.” I point at my leg. “His pants were so tight I could tell he had something under there.”
“Huh.” His forehead scrunches.
“What?”
“I just remembered something.” He’s still frowning, so even though I want to shoulder check him to knock the words loose, I pretend to be patient. “A thought popped into my head—that day.He shaves his legs.” Felix swallows. “And then I forgot, because… everything. But that must mean I could see part of his leg, you know? Like his pants were pulled up.”
I nod, because I know exactly what he’s talking about. Not the shaving part; it’s the weird way my impressions of that day are all fragmented and jerky.
“Maybe he was trying to get his EpiPen.” He looks at me like I must know the answer, but all I have are more questions.
“Was it already gone? Or did something happen to it after?” I shiver, because I thought we were playing this game to killtime, but it feels like we just stumbled onto something real. And I do not have the bandwidth to take that on while my grandmother is at the police station.
“What about you?” I ask, turning the wheel of this conversation.
“I don’t shave my legs.” Felix looks down at his cargo pants like he’s weighing whether he needs to prove his claim. “I thought that was for swimmers and cyclists—”
“I’m not talking about your body hair.” Grabbing the pencil, I writeFELIX.
“Okay, what’s my motivation?” He sounds genuinely curious.
“Maybe you were jealous?”
He huffs at that. “I could tell you didn’t like him.”
I hope the shock isn’t written all over my face. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? “I meant of his car and stuff,” I clarify after a pause big enough to bury a body. “Sunglasses. Fancy watch. Etcetera.”
“Oh. That. Ha.” It’s the saddest fake laugh in the history of the universe. Maybe we should throw ourselves off the balcony, as someone allegedly did with the BRO EpiPen.
“I did not kill him for his stuff,” Felix says after chugging the rest of his water.
“Right,” I agree, not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t think so. Moving on.”
We run through the next batch of names like we’re up against a countdown clock, careful to avoid any uncomfortable silences.
Mr. Namura might have taken issue with Bradley’s joyless high-protein diet, but it’s hard to imagine someone committing murder over carbs. Mrs. A could only kill someone withkindness, and we both feel strongly that Malia would have vocalized at the crucial moment, ruining the stealth factor.
“Too bad we can’t pin it on Cheryl.” She seemed perfectly nice, but right now I’m desperate to find a culprit who doesn’t live in this building.
“What about Claude’s sister?” Felix asks.
“Why would Bernie kill her own nephew?”
“Maybe she found out he was stealing from her. The painting,” he reminds me, when I don’t immediately connect the dots. Felix draws something on the corner of the page. “That would be my motive. Especially now, when—”
