“I’m married, not dead,” Mom pointed out.
“I don’t know. There’s still something bothering me.” There were loose ends. The lemons, for one. Something about it didn’t sit right.
“Maybe you just can’t relax and enjoy the fact you caught him,” Mom said. “You never could just enjoy a victory.”
“What victory?” Olivia asked. “Russo is like a folk hero now.”
I sighed. “Yeah, there’s already a ‘Free Russo’ campaign.” I held up my phone showing the many #FreeRusso posts. It was kind of gross.
Mom glanced at the clock on the stove. “Time for your meds,” Mom said. “Where are they?”
“Trailer, I think?”
“I’m going to get them,” Mom said and hurried out of the kitchen.
“So what’s bugging you?” Olivia asked.
“The mayor’s crime scene doesn’t fit the others. It’s sloppy, and the lemon left isn’t quite right.” I’d told Oscar this before, but nowI’d dug up the pictures Russo shared with me months ago to prove it. I studied the photo of Heather Johnston’s bathroom. The lemon left by the tub had a stem and a single green leaf. A Sorrento.
Olivia peered at that. “Well, he wasn’t home in Chicago, so he had to make do.” Olivia shrugged.
“Right, except for Gordon’s murder. That lemon had a branch and leaves on it.”
Olivia looked at me blankly. “So?”
“So none of the other murder victims got a grocery-store lemon. They all got ones with leaves. Plus, he always uses this particular kind of lemon.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but the Canceled Killer is methodical, and everything has meaning.” I bit my lip. “He likes making a story out of the crime scenes. That’s histhing. And he wouldn’t mess up this one detail. Plus, Russo said he wasn’t the killer.”
“Of course Russo would say that,” Olivia said. “He wouldn’t admit to it.”
“Yeah, but he did admit to killing the mayor. And he seemed genuinely surprised about Olga Duncan.”
“I’m back!” Mom cried, sweeping in through the back door. “I’ve got your antibiotics.” She rattled the bottle at me, and I took it, opened the cap, and popped one into my mouth.
“Do I smell… eh… something burning?” asked Mateo as he came down the stairs. He’d been staying in a spare room upstairs at Mom’s insistence.
“Cranberry scones! Want one?” Mom lifted the plate of charred hockey pucks.
“Ah…” Mateo looked uneasy. “I’m uh… how do you say? I don’t eat carbs.”
“Oh, you’re no fun,” Mom said and put the plate back down on the counter. I realized that Mateo was fully dressed and carrying his bag.
“Going somewhere?”
“To my parents’ house in Milwaukee. They saw the news and they’re worried about me.” Mateo had been interviewed on the network news the night before, recalling how he’d only barely escaped the clutches of the killer.
“I bet they are,” Mom said.
“So then, this is goodbye, I guess?” he told my mom, and hugged her. Then he hugged Olivia. And he made his way around the granite island to me. He sent out a fake punch just for old times’ sake, but he pulled up at the last minute.
“I could’ve used a punch or two when we were in Jude’s kitchen with Russo,” I scolded him.
Mateo shrugged. “I only fake fight,” he told me, which was the truth. None of his punches ever did carry any weight. “But alas, you and me? I think we are not meant to be.”
“You’re breaking up with me?” I almost wanted to laugh.
