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“Christ,” Mum said, spooning spaghetti into the pasta dishes. “I can’t imagine stabbing someone once, never mind thirteen times.”
“Ridiculous,” Dad replied, getting the parmesan from the fridge. “You’ve imagined stabbing me at least a thousand times.”
“Yes, darling, but in the hand. With a fork.” She paused. “Mostly.”
I laughed, putting the water jug down. Dinner was a family affair tonight, and I was happy about that. The last few days had been hectic, and I’d barely seen my parents.
They had a bouncing social life in Fox Point, apparently.
And yes, I was going to pump them for information.
I’d become Laura Thyme in one day. Just without the green thumb.
Mum spooned the Bolognese mix on top of the spaghetti, and Dad picked up each dish as they were done, setting the first one in front of me. I muttered a “Thanks” as he turned to get Mum’s, too.
“Thirteen times is a bit intense,” Dad said, joining us at the table. “He must have really pissed someone off.”
“Well, that rules you out,” Mum added brightly.
“How on Earth does that rule me out?” I frowned. “I was the last person to see him, as far as anyone knows. I was pretty upset by our exchange—maybe I did do it.”
She looked at me like I was stupid. “You have a hot temper, not a bad one. You blow up, but it’s over in a matter of minutes. If you were going to do anything to him, you’d have punched him in front of everyone at the pub, not chased him halfway through town to kill him hours later.”
I pursed my lips. “That’s not true.”
“Lottie, don’t make me remind you of the incident in year ten,” Dad warned, trying not to smile.
“I didn’t punch Sam that hard,” I muttered, focusing on mixing my spaghetti with the sauce. “Besides, he should have taken my first ‘no’ instead of carrying on trying to kiss me.”
“She’s not wrong,” Mum agreed. “Like I said to the headteacher then, the boy deserved it.”
Dad eyed her. “I don’t disagree with you, darling. In fact, I was using it to back up your point about her punching Declan Tierney in front of everyone. Besides, if Lottie was going to murder anyone, she’d be far more discreet about it.”
“True. She’s more of a poison in your tea kind of girl, I think.”
“Or just undercook your chicken and blame it on food poisoning.”
“Are you done theorising what kind of murderer I’d be?” I snorted, reaching for my glass of water. “What would drive someone to stab another person thirteen times? It’s overkill, isn’t it?”
Dad slowly nodded. “I suppose it depends how badly you want to make sure someone is dead.”
“Quite badly, by the sounds of it.”
“I can’t believe his wife just told you that.” Mum got up and retrieved a bottle of wine from the fridge.
Dad eyed her. “Darling, it’s Wednesday.”
“The Italians drink wine on Wednesday.”
“We’re not Italian.”
“We’re eating Italian food. Close enough.” She got the corkscrew from the drawer and set about freeing the wine from its bottle. “Why would you tell a total stranger how your husband died like that?”
“I found his body. Of all the people to tell, I’m probably the most reasonable,” I pointed out. “Also, I asked.”
Dad chuckled.
Mum removed the cork with a ‘pop’ and set the bottle on the table while she grabbed glasses. “How did you even run into her?”
