Page 23 of By the Book
“Just Patricia and Jonny, dear, if you’re going to arrest us.”
That mind-blowing sentence only threw Bobby for a second. “I’m not sure what’s going on here—”
“We’re trying to pick this lock,” my dad said. “But it’s being a pain in the rear.”
(He did not sayrear. In fact, he peppered those sentences with a lot of Talon Maverick’s favorite words.)
“The mayor stole Nathaniel Blackwood’s diary,” my mom explained.
“What?” I said. “How do you know she stole it?”
“Because she’s the most obvious suspect. She’s the only one with a clear motive. And nobody else had an opportunity—we were all log-jammed in the living room.”
“The cupcake distraction was a nice touch,” my dad said as he returned to fumbling with the lock.
“Will you knock that off?” I said. “You’re not even doing it right. And it’s illegal. Seriously, what is going on with you two? You’re acting insane. You’d never try this stuff back home.”
“That’s because we live on a farm in the middle of nowhere,” my mom said.
My dad nodded. “We never had a chance.”
“It was a real missed opportunity,” my mom said. “I’m seeing that now.”
“Small-town America,” my dad put in. “That’s where we should have been.”
“Vivienne knew what she was doing.”
“She always did.”
“And Dashiell’s had a wonderful time.”
“He’s a natural.”
At that point, I finally recovered the power of speech. “A natural? At what? Blundering into murders and somehow managing not to get myself killed? And let me get this straight: youwantto live in a small town with an impossibly high murder rate?”
“He’s doing it again,” my mom murmured. “He’s minimizing.”
My dad pitched his voice toward me as he fumbled the lockpick again. “You know we don’t like it when you talk badly about yourself, kiddo. You’re so good at everything. You’re so smart—you’re a genius—”
“I am not a genius! And I’m not good at anything!”
It was such a petulant, childlike response—not to mention, I’d all but screamed it—that a flash fire lit up my face as soon as the words left my mouth.
“Oh Dashiell,” my mom said. Then, with forced cheer, she said, “Bobby, I bet you’re much better at this than we are. Why don’t you come show Jonny how to do it?”
“I don’t need him to show me how to do it,” my dad said. “I’ve almost got it.”
When I opened my mouth, Bobby squeezed my arm and said, “Jonny, I’m not on duty, but if you keep trying to pick that lock, I’m going to have to place you under arrest.”
My dad and my mom traded a look.
“Can I record it?” my mom asked. “There’s nothing like firsthand research.”
“Vivienne’s not the only one who can get arrested in this town,” my dad said. He got to his feet stiffly, holding on to my mom with one hand, and bracing himself against the door with the other. “All right, Bobby, let’s do this. Now, are you carrying a gun? Because I’ve got to warn you, I’ve been trained to take them away from people.”
“Remember ABC,” my mom said to Bobby. “Awareness, balance, and control. Those are the fundamental principles of a well-executed arrest.”
“And watch the hands,” my dad told him. “The suspect’s hands are the most dangerous part. You always have to watch the hands. Now, are you going to cuff us in front or in the back?”
