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“It doesn’t matt—wait, how did you get into Harry’s bedroom? Did he let you in? If so, you’ve already killed him, Aunt Bethel. He doesn’t need your nudes.”
She sniffed, standing up and straightening her ghastly orange dress. “Margaret and I were there for a card event they were hosting and he showed me around.”
I stared at her. “You broke into his room, didn’t you?”
“I would do nothing of the sort!”
“You broke into his room and snooped around.”
Leaning forward, she looked around conspiratorially and whispered, “He takes a lot of medication. I could make some money on the black Amazon.”
“The black Amazon?”
“Under the table deals. You know. The shady guys at gas stations with their non-descript brown paper envelopes.”
“You mean the black mark—it doesn’t matter.” I waved my hands in front of me. “Aunt Bethel, you cannot break into someone’s room and snoop around. Even the police need a warrant for that.”
“The state could save a lot of money if they let nosey old ladies snoop around instead.”
Now there was a point I wasn’t going to argue with.
That didn’t make it right. True, yes, but half of them would probably pop out their hip or something halfway through climbing the stairs.
“You cannot break into someone’s room,” I repeated, letting my hair out of the bun I’d had it in all day. It was still damp in places, and I grabbed my brush from the counter to detangle the few knots that were buried in it. “It’s illegal. An arrestable offence. And before you try to tell me; no, I do not care to know what’s on Harry’s walls.”
Aunt Bethel sniffed. “I thought you were the fun one. Your brother is boring now he’s all loved up with the girl who likes raccoons.”
Lord, she was tiring. “I am the fun one. That doesn’t mean I condone breaking the law. Also, that girl who likes raccoons happens to be one of my best friends.”
“Doesn’t dating your brother break the girl code? Or whatever it is you kids call it these days?”
“If you need a girl code, it’s because you are going to break it.” I looked at her pointedly. “But you don’t follow the law, so what do I know?”
She blinked at me. “Don’t you care she’s banging your brother?”
The brush clattered to the floor as I dropped it in exchange for my phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Mom. She needs to come and collect her child now.” I held the phone to my ear as it started ringing.
“Nooo!” Aunt Bethel shrieked. “I’ll behave. I promise.”
She was surprisingly spritely for her old age and made it to me right as my mom said, “Hello?” My aunt wrestled the phone from me and shouted, “Wrong number!” in a gruff, Brooklyn-esque accent.
I gave her a flat look. “She has my number saved, you idiot.”
“The disrespect to the elders!” Aunt Bethel clutched her chest, then glanced at my phone. “Ooh, you have a text!”
“Give me my phone!”
“It looks like it’s from a guy. Ooh, have you been texting someone?” She quickly scrolled, then stopped, her eyes going wide. “My, my, my, Reagan! You are the fun one of the family!”
I froze.
No.
There was no way Dick Guy had texted me again.
And that my eighty-nine-year-old aunt had scrolled to the top of that conversation and seen—
Jesus.
Fuck.
She had.
Of course she had. This was my Great Aunt Bethel. She probably received this for fun online.
She pinched the screen. “Oh, he has tattoos! What a bad boy!”
He had tattoos? I’d missed that.
I snatched my phone right out of her wrinkly little hand. “Yep. Calling Mom right now.”
“Why do you have a penis on your phone?”
“Why are you zooming in to see the tattoos?” I shot back, holding the phone close to my chest. “It’s none of your business what’s on my phone.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why don’t you have his number saved?”
“None of your business,” I repeated.
“You don’t know him, do you?” A sly grin spread across her face, revealing a smudge of pink lipstick on her front tooth.
“You’ve got a little lipstick on your front tooth.”
She curled her upper lip up and ran her tongue over her front two teeth, dislodging it. “Why do you have a stranger’s penis on your phone, Reagan? Are you struggling for money? Are your parents cutting you off? Mind you, I’d cut you off if you were a hooker, too, it’s not good for the old reputation—”
“I’m not a hooker!” Oh, my God. How had we gotten this far? “It was a wrong number text and he appreciated that I was nice about his mistake. I was going to delete the conversation but a customer came into the shop, and here we are.” I held out my hands. “No, Mom and Dad are not cutting me off, because I live off my salary anyway. I’m self-sufficient.”
