“Aren’t you going to read me my Miranda rights?” I challenged.
“Do I need to?” Oscar retorted.
“No,” I said. “And this has everything to do with the Canceled Killer. Also, sidenote, the killer is getting sloppy, and that probably means he’ll make more mistakes and we can catch him then.”
“Sloppy, how?”
“Like stalking me all over town in a white Jeep Wagoneer,” I suggested. “Also, the lemon left at the scene doesn’t have leaves on it.”
“So?”
“The killer always leaves lemons with leaves.”
“Wait, the Canceled Killer leaves lemons at crime scenes? I don’t remember that in the news.”
“That’s because the police didn’t make it publicly known. And he doesn’t just leave any old lemons.” I dug in my memory for the specific kind. “Sorrento. He only leaves Sorrento lemons, a special breed from the Amalfi Coast in Italy. And they always have a green leaf on them. There’s symbolism there, but I have no idea what it is. The lemon at the mayor’s scene, I guarantee you, is not a Sorrento. They’re a little larger than average lemons.”
Oscar stared at me. “You’re an expert on lemons now, too.”
“Yes, I am. Plus, whileIthink Stokes is an ass, he wasn’t technically canceled. Not with how much he paid to reputation repairersto bury unflattering stories of him online. So, if this evenisthe killer, then that means he’ll make more mistakes. And maybe we can catch him. Finally.”
Oscar slowly pulled his gaze from the floor and back to me, his face a dark cloud of storms that promised to blow the shingles straight off the nearest roof.
“Why didn’t you come to me when those guys jumped you?”
“Because you’d want to interview everyone and file charges and… blah, blah, blah.” I made a blabbing gesture with my hand.
“Blah, blah, blah is the rule of law,” Oscar said, voice stern.
“So you and Jude keep telling me.”
“Maybe you should listen to one of us.” Oscar raked a frustrated hand through his hair. It took me a second to realize this wasn’t the usual tired-older-brother lecture. He was genuinely upset with me. And that meant only one thing: He was scared. “And,Jesus, did it ever occur to you to run? Why did you try to take onthreemen by yourself?”
“They had us surrounded,” I pointed out. “Someone had to protect Jude.”
Oscar shook his head. “You arejustlike Mom.”
“Mom doesn’t get into fights!”
“Mom is completely overconfident about everything, which is why she thinks her cranberry scones are edible. Just likeyouare overconfident in your skills.” Oscar shook his head. “And you’ve got her temper.”
No need to tell me this. Mom would fly off the handle at any little thing when we were kids. If she could reach a wooden spoon, we were all dead. Best to run fast. I learned to sprint out of the house and head to the ginkgo tree. I could hang out in the highest branches until she cooled off.
“I just never thought your temper would get you into this kind of trouble.” Oscar shook his head. “I never thought you’d actually kill someone.”
I blinked, stunned.
“You thinkIdid this?”
Oscar glared at me.
“I didn’t do this. I’m not a murderer.” I never thought I’d have to tell my brother this pretty basic fact about how I wasn’t walking human garbage. That Oscar forced me to spell it out stung more than I’d like to admit. “Also, how, exactly, was I supposed to murder him when I was fighting three of his hired goons?”
Oscar shook his head. “Maybe you killed him before you ran into his muscle.”
“And then I go back to the crime scene?” I scoffed. “I didn’t do this. Ask Jude!”
Oscar let out a frustrated sigh. “As if he would be a credible witness when it came to you.”
