Evil All Along, page 22
part #8 of The Last Picks Series
We sat like that for a while. My arm around him. His face nestled in the crook of my shoulder. A quiet rhythm between us that settled into the larger rhythm of the ocean. I had read somewhere that the ocean has its own music, made up of incredibly low frequencies—too low for humans to hear. But I thought, maybe, sometimes we could feel it. Right then, I thought I could feel it, whatever it was that was moving between us, the slow flood and ebb of this moment.
I shifted so I could look him in the eye. He only lasted a second before he cut his eyes away, so I waited until they came back. And, because this was Keme we were talking about, when they did, they held a hint of defiance—a kind of de facto combativeness.
“I wish a lot of things had been different about your life, Keme. Because I love you, and because I can’t imagine anyone not loving you, and wanting to take care of you, and making sure you had the best life they could give you. And I know nothing I say can change the past, or make up for it, or give you what you should have had. But I do want you to know that you have a family now. And we love you. All of us. And we’re here for you. And if you need anything—”
“I need two hundred bucks for the dance tickets,” he said, wiping his eyes—which now looked remarkably alert. Even predatory. “And another hundred to take Millie somewhere for dinner.”
“Uh, I meant more in an emotional—”
“And I want to drive the Pilot because Millie has a girl’s car.”
He considered me for a moment, as though trying to decide if he had any more demands, and then—to my complete and utter and total and all-encompassing surprise—he hugged me. And then he kissed me on the cheek.
“Everything all right?” Bobby asked from the doorway.
“Yeah,” Keme said, bouncing up from the bed. “He’s just being a donkey.”
Bobby made a noise that suggested this was not outside the realm of possibility.
I might have been, as Pippi would have put it in one of her books, a little misty-eyed, but I managed to say, “He just extorted three hundred dollars out of me.”
Laughing, Bobby set to work with the concealer.
“Yuk it up,” I told him. “He wants to borrow the Pilot too.”
The best word for Bobby’s expression was startled.
For an honorary straight guy, Bobby had a surprisingly deft hand at concealer, and Keme looked good to go in a few minutes. His eyes weren’t even red, which was totally unfair since I was still intermittently misty-eyed.
We headed downstairs. Voices from the vestibule drifted out to meet us.
“What if he’s a wig thief?” Fox was saying. “But he specializes in dusty wigs that he attaches to his, uh, rump?”
“If you’re talking about my costume,” I said, “I’m not listening, and I’m not going to respond. And Bobby’s going to beat you up.”
Bobby, though, did not look like he was going to beat anyone up—especially not in that Marty McFly getup (have I mentioned the vest?). In fact, at that moment Bobby was whispering something in Keme’s ear that I suspected was some sort of blend of fatherly wisdom, brotherly advice, and a deputy’s reminder that he could and would find you if you decided to horse around in his SUV. Keme’s expression was caught somewhere between annoyed embarrassment and an extreme eagerness to reassure.
“Oh!” Fox said. “Or what if he’s a nightmare—you know, like the mythological beast? Only he’s old and decrepit, and that’s why his tail looks so dusty—”
“For Pete’s sake,” I snapped as we reached them. “My costume is not that hard!”
To judge by the mountain of Almond Joy wrappers, Fox had chosen not to leave any for the rest of us. Indira was reading a book called XKREKHS: MY ALIEN GRUMP – A SCI-FI ABDUCTION ROMANCE FATED MATES SWAP (which featured an incredibly well-developed blue torso on it). Last week, it had been Calvino.
“Of course not,” Fox said. “It’s obvious you’re—what do you call that bristly thing you use to clean—”
“He’s a dust bunny,” Keme said absently. He was checking himself in the window, using the faint reflection there to fiddle with his bow tie.
The stunned silence that followed wasn’t exactly polite. But when I recovered, I held out a hand toward Keme in a there you go slash finally gesture. I also made a strangled noise that suggested, in general, how frustrating everyone had been.
“You look very cute,” Bobby murmured as he scruffed my bunny ears.
There probably would have been more, except at that moment, the front door opened, and Millie stepped into view.
She’d curled her hair, and she wore makeup that managed to do amazing things while still, well, leaving her looking like Millie. The flared skirt of her champagne-colored mini hit her at mid-thigh, and the best way I could describe her shoes was sparkly. She looked beautiful. Beyond beautiful. She looked like a princess. And when I saw Keme, how his face slackened and his thoughts dribbled out of his ears and he became one giant, goopy boy who finally got to be with the girl he’d been in love with for years, the pang in my heart was so intense that misty-eyed doesn’t even begin to describe it. Bobby noticed, of course, and he slipped an arm around my waist.
(I wasn’t the only one, by the way. Indira was mopping her eyes, and Fox was suspiciously silent inside their helmet.)
The dopey look on Keme’s face was less cute a few moments later.
“Did he have a stroke?” I murmured.
Bobby gave me a warning squeeze.
“You look beautiful, Millicent,” Indira said. “Keme, go grab her corsage from the refrigerator.”
Keme still hadn’t moved.
“Maybe someone should stick him with a pin,” Fox said in their least helpful voice.
Bobby took Keme by the shoulder and steered him toward the kitchen, and I moved over to join Millie and Indira, adding my own compliments. Millie answered in murmurs and broken fragments—I still hadn’t heard a complete sentence out of her, let alone an ear-shattering burst of excitement. Then Keme came back, and it turned out Millie had a boutonniere for him, and the two of them fumbled through the process of helping each other with the flowers.
“You look nice,” Keme finally managed to say.
“Nice?” Fox said.
Color rushed into Keme’s face. “You look beautiful.”
“And did anybody notice,” I said, “that Keme looks like a total wiener?”
Keme flashed me a look that promised a quick, savage murder as soon as he was back from the dance. Millie laughed. Indira had the air of a woman who was wondering if she should wash my mouth out now or after Keme and Millie left. Fox muttered a despairing, “Dust bunny,” under their breath and shook their head.
And then—after I had handed over all the money I had in the world, plus Bobby’s spare keys—it was time for Keme and Millie to leave. We all exchanged hugs. As I hugged Millie, I said, “You’re gorgeous,” and then, loud enough for Keme to hear, “You can do better.”
Keme scowled.
Millie laughed, but it sounded like she might cry.
When I found myself hugging Keme goodbye, I was surprised when his arms tightened around me, pulling me close. And I was even more surprised when he whispered, “Thank you.” And then, in a broken little voice, “I love you.” I was less surprised when I felt something sharp jab me under the ribs, and he added, “If you ever tell anyone I said that, I’ll kill you.”
If you’ve never dispatched a budding teenage psychopath to a high school dance, let me tell you: it’s a real mixed bag.
The old folks watched from the door as Keme helped Millie into the Pilot, and then he walked around and got in the SUV. They went down the drive, their headlights floating in the dark. And then they were gone.
“I hope they have a good time,” Indira said.
“I hope they bring some of my money back,” I said.
“They’ll have a great time,” Bobby said. He ignored my comment about the money, but he added, “I hope they make good choices.”
“I hope they don’t wreck your car,” I said.
The expression on his face suggested he wasn’t grateful for me opening my trap.
“I hope someone spikes the punch,” Fox said. “And they all get detention and decide to play pranks on the dean. Oh! And that there’s a werewolf that dances on top of a van.”
“That’s a lot of different movies,” I said.
And in an unbelievably haughty voice, Fox said, “I am aware.”
A bit later, the doorbell rang, and it was time for more trick-or-treaters. Supplies were running low, so Bobby and I went to the kitchen to restock. I had the important responsibility of pre-sorting the candy, to make sure we didn’t miss out on any of the good stuff, and I was diligently weeding out the plain M&M's (and looking for any stray Butterfingers) when I realized Bobby was staring at me.
“They’re plain chocolate,” I said, “and I know they melt in your mouth, not in your hand, but we have to prioritize, Bobby: nougat, caramel, heck, even crisped rice—”
“You’re going to be such a good dad.”
It was the way he said it as much as the words themselves, as though the fact had only now clicked. As though it were something wonderful. He was leaning against the counter, arms folded, the earthy bronze of his eyes catching the light. In the distance, the excited screams of children suggested another round of trick-or-treaters at the front door. The little packet of M&M's rustled under my hand.
I cleared my throat and tossed it into the for-trick-or-treaters pile. “Yeah, well. I don’t know about that. I mean, my God, Bobby, you’ve met my parents.”
“You are. I just wanted you to know. If you want to be a dad, you’re going to be a great one. I thought you should know that.”
And what in the world was I supposed to say to that?
“Thanks, I guess,” was apparently the extent of my conversational aptitude at that. As I resumed my search of the candy, I said, “Anyway, Keme’s definitely not my kid. He’s way too strong, for one thing—it’s a little freaky, actually. And he’d probably eviscerate me during my next nap if he thought I was trying to claim him. He’s more of a—what’s the word for someone who’s good at video games, but sometimes he lets you win, and you have to take care of him but you can’t let him know you’re taking care of him, and one time you were playing red hands, and he slapped you, like, really hard, but you didn’t cry even if he says you did, and for some reason everyone thinks he’s your big brother?”
Bobby, as usual, knew what I was thinking. He held up a Butterfinger, gave me that goofy grin, and flipped it to me. When I caught it, it made his smile get even bigger for some reason. And I was smiling too, even though I wasn’t sure why. And yes, gosh darn it, I was misty-eyed again. And in what was, doubtless, a moment of weakness, I thought maybe I’d save the Butterfinger for Keme.
“That,” Bobby said, and he kissed my cheek and grabbed the bowl of candy and steered me toward the front of the house, “is called a friend.”
Always Murder
Keep reading for a sneak preview of Always Murder, the next book in The Last Picks.
Chapter 1
Nobody was listening to Millie.
Which, if you know Millie, might sound impossible. But it was happening. Right in front of my eyes. And it was the kind of epically willful ignoring that only family is capable of.
“What about stabbed?” Millie’s mom, Christine, had her attention fixed on me. Like Millie, she was blond and petite. And like Millie, she loved to, er, communicate. And she’d been communicating with me so much this evening that I was starting to understand what those poor animals felt when they finally decided to chew their own legs off. Gesturing with her knife, she leaned over the table. “Have you ever been stabbed?”
“KEME’S never been stabbed,” Millie said. Loudly. “Have you, Keme?”
Keme didn’t answer. That didn’t seem fair; I had to answer all the questions that were launched my way, even (for example) when, as soon as we got to Millie’s house, Christine asked me, quote, Oh, sweetie, did you just wake up?
It also wasn’t fair that somehow, Keme had avoided the theme of the night—ugly holiday sweaters. I was wearing a hideous concoction Millie had provided that had a plastic garland glued to it, with tiny ornaments that jingled every time I moved. And Bobby’s sweater looked like a Christmas tree, with triangular flaps of cloth hanging off the arms to look, well, like a Christmas tree. Everybody was wearing an ugly sweater. Everyone except Keme. He was dressed as he always was—tonight’s outfit was board shorts plus a long-sleeved hoodie with a hole in the cuff. He sat there, poking at the lima beans on his plate and looking like he was thinking about doing some stabbing himself.
Not that I blamed him. A holiday dinner with Millie’s family was already a lot, and there were too many people crowded around the dining room table. Millie and Keme, of course. Millie’s mom, Christine, and her dad, Matthew, who gave off the air that he had made it this far in life only through the grace of television and what Christine called his man cave. Then Millie’s brothers, Paul and Ryan. Paul was older and taller. Ryan was younger and shorter—by an inch or two. They were both blond, both wiry, both in their twenties. Their notable achievement in life was that they’d been publicly spanked—I’m talking bare-bottom in a parking lot—when they were children. For fighting in a Burger King. (I’m serious: people in Hastings Rock still talked about it.)
So far, so good.
Then there were Millie’s sisters, Kassandra and Angeline.
They shared the family look: fair coloring, slender, attractive. That’s where the resemblance stopped. Paul and Ryan were the kind of guys who argued about video games (I mean, I’m not pointing any fingers—sometimes Keme cheats, and I have to yell at him) and who got themselves thrown out of laser tag matches with shocking frequency. And Millie was like this vibrating ball of pure energy. Kassandra and Angeline, on the other hand, looked—and talked—like the girls in those makeup tutorials that sometimes popped up in my TikTok feed. (I watched one drag queen video, and now my algorithm is doomed.) The first time I met them, I had the terrifying suspicion that they wanted to date me. Fortunately (for everyone, probably), I turned out to be gay. One time, totally unintentionally, I’d blocked Kassandra with my shopping cart at the Keel Haul General Store. She’d asked me to move it. That had been all. And Angeline had been standing right next to her, smiling. But I swear to God, I caught a glimpse of something in their eyes, and it made me think of those maniacs who accelerate when a cat darts in front of their car.
Even worse, tonight was boyfriend night, so along with me and Bobby and Christine and Matthew and Millie and Keme and Kassandra and Angeline, there were two strangers at the table. David was ghostly pale, with dark hair in a massive shag, kind of like one of those kids from Stranger Things. Elliott was a lawyer, as he’d already told us three times, and he was wearing wraparound sunglasses on the back of his head. On the Oregon Coast. In December. At night. Inside.
Christine was still waiting for an answer.
“Uh, no,” I said. I kept a wary eye on her knife hand. “Never been stabbed.”
“Dash has never been stabbed,” Christine announced to the table.
“I knew a guy who got stabbed once,” David said in a hauntingly spectral voice. (I’m a writer; I’m allowed to say things like that.) “It was at this club in Portland. You’ve probably never heard of it.”
“Keme LOVES clubs,” Millie said. “Right, Keme?”
I had my doubts about Keme loving clubs, but then I also had my doubts about any of us surviving the night.
“Bobby’s been stabbed,” I said.
“No,” Bobby said, giving me a look. “I haven’t.”
But Christine didn’t take the bait. “Dash, tell them about the time you stopped Vivienne from murdering everyone in their sleep.” For David and Elliott’s benefit, she added, “Dash is a celebrity in Hastings Rock. Speaking of which—” She turned a gaze on me like one of those spear-fishermen about to spear a fish. “We’d love to have you in our Nativity pageant. We do it every year.”
“I’m going to be MARY,” Millie announced.
“We’ll see. Dash, I think you might be the perfect Joseph.”
“What do you mean, we’ll see? You always said I couldn’t be Mary because Mary had to have a boyfriend. And I DO have a boyfriend. I have KEME!”
Angeline wiggled forward in her seat. “I thought I was going to be Mary.”
“Gracie Sterling always get to be Mary,” Millie said. From the tone, I thought Gracie Sterling might be wise not to frequent any dark alleys or abandoned parking garages in the near future. “It’s MY turn.”
“Desperate much?” Kassandra said.
Angeline stared at Millie, the look full of venom. “At least Mary’s boyfriend could talk. What’s he going to do? Stand up there?”
Keme didn’t react. Bobby, on the other hand, put down his fork and knife and pressed his hands flat on the table.
“For heaven’s sake, Millicent,” Christine said, “not everything is about you. Oh, Dash, you have to come to the Christmas tree farm with us tomorrow.” She brightened, as though something had just occurred to her. “I can give you your lines for the pageant.”
“Pageants aren’t exactly my thing,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re going to be Joseph, and you’re going to love it.”
I opened my mouth and realized I had no idea what to say to that.
“It would mean so much to everyone,” Christine said. And then, to the others, “Dash is very popular.”
“I’m really not,” I said.
“Everyone knows Dash.”
“Oh God, I hope not.”
“Everyone loves Dash.”
“No, definitely not. I’m very unpopular. It’s a combination of personality and my looks—”
“Dash is always solving murders,” Christine said over me. Then she gave me a little hurry-up gesture with the knife. “Tell them, Dash.”
Across the table, Millie was giving me a pleading look.
