Page 18 of Vera Wong's Unsolicited Advice for Murderers

There’s a moment of silence, then Riki clears his throat. “Um, you keep saying this word ‘suspect’... uh... is there something we should be aware of?”

“Oh yes,” Vera says cheerfully, pouring a cup of tea for Sana, “you are two of my suspects, of course. Suspects in Marshall’s murder,” she adds, in case they hadn’t quite got that.

“Wh—” The question lodges in Sana’s throat, and while she struggles to speak, Vera hands her the tea, and years of teachings about how to treat your elders kick in and Sana automatically says, “Thank you, Auntie.” Then, of course, she wants to kick herself because, first of all, Vera isnother auntie, and second of all, even if she were, she’s an auntie who is accusing Sana of literal murder.

“Oh, such a polite girl you are!” Vera smiles at her, but the smile wanes when she spots Sana’s hands. “Wah, your hands are spattered with paint. You should wash them, paint is no good for your skin, that’s why your hands are so dry.”

Sana removes her hands from the table, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Yeah, it’s—I was just, uh, painting my room.”Hah, a little voice says in her head.You wish you were painting your room.In truth, she’d just mixed the paints before standing in front of the blank canvas for a whole hour, holding up her brush until the paint trickled down the bristles and the handle and her hand, all the way to her elbow, before she threw down the brush and stormed out of the room. Same old story.

“How old are you again, Sana? What year are you born in?”

Sana tells her, and Vera scrunches her face up in deep thought. A moment later, Vera shakes her head with a tut. “Ah, you are a dragon. Not compatible with my son. I been thinking,ifyou are not killer, of course, that I should introduce you to my son, but heis an ox, you know, so it’s not compatible. Dragon will eat the ox.” Vera turns to Riki. “And you? What is your zodiac sign?”

“Uh. I’m a rat?” Riki says apologetically.

“Oh!” Vera claps, a huge smile swallowing her face. “Wonderful! Perfect match, you two! I just know it. I know you will make a good couple. If neither of you is Marshall’s killer, then this is match make in heaven. Such good luck.”

Sana and Riki look at each other and the only thing that makes Sana feel less mortified is seeing how embarrassed Riki is. At least it’s not just her. Also, who cares about feeling mortified? She should be panicking at the whole murder-suspect thing. But there is just so much going on, and oh, now Vera’s placed a bun right in Sana’s face and is ordering Sana to eat it. Sana complies without thinking, and before she knows it, she’s got a mouthful of taro bun and is listening to Vera talk about how the bun is actually Chinese, not French, despite what Sana might think. Bold of Vera to assume that Sana is thinking of French pastries when her mind is basically just going,Waaaaaah?!

“So Sana here,” Vera is saying to Riki, “has a potcut—now, I know you might think it is sounding like very bad skin condition, but is actually like a radio show, but on the Internet. Very good, right? It’s like your job, Riki, but on the radio! Well, not on the radio, but on the Internet.” She nods to herself, satisfied with her explanation, then says to Sana, “Riki here is a reporter from the Buzzfeed!”

“Wow,” Sana says through a mouthful of not-French taro bun. “That’s really impressive,” she says to Riki, who scratches his cheek and looks down at his teacup. Aww, he’s humble too. Her insides are writhing at the thought of Riki and Vera finding out the truth about her, that she has neither a podcast, nor a potcut,and that she’s in fact not doing much with her life aside from failing to do the very thing she’s wanted to do ever since she dipped her chubby hands in a paint pot at age one.

“Um.” Riki clears his throat. “You mentioned that we’re both suspects? Can I ask why?”

“Oh yes.” Vera sets down her teacup. “You mustn’t take it personal, okay? Oh, you young people take everything so personal nowadays. So what if I think you might be a killer? That doesn’t mean I think you are a bad person.”

“Uh...” Sana licks her lips. “I mean, I think it kind of does?”

Vera tuts at her. “What nonsense. Of course not.”

“But why do you think we’re suspects in the first place?” Riki says, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

“So many reasons.” Vera holds up her left thumb. “One, everyone knows that killers always come back to scene of the crime. Yes? They like to admire their handiwork. So I know, all I have to do is wait and see who turns up. Both of you turn up yesterday, so you automatically go on my list. See? Nothing personal.”

“You said there are many reasons?” Sana says, though she’s unsure that she wants to know the other reasons.

“Yes, of course. Okay, ladies first. Sana, where were you on night that Marshall was killed?”

Sana’s mind implodes, filling her head with nothing but bright white light and a high-pitched squeal.Say something, she screams silently at herself.Anything!But nothing comes out.

“This is silly,” Riki says.

Sana looks at him, her heart sprinting like a hunted rabbit.

“We don’t know Marshall, Vera. We certainly don’t have to tell you where we were on the night he died.” He seems so sure of himself when he says this. Is this what it’s like to be able to standup to an elderly Asian auntie? Sana is both impressed and horrified at the same time. “Let’s focus on why you think Marshall was killed to begin with.”

Vera shrugs, though her expression stays sharp and alert. “Okay, you don’t have to tell me for now. I will figure out later. Let’s see, why else do I think Marshall is killed? Well, this Marshall guy sounds like very bad person, the kind that would get killed, you know?”

Sana could swear her intestines have morphed into snakes and are slithering around inside her belly. She feels like throwing up. Because yes, Vera is exactly right. Marshall was a very bad person, the kind that would very much get killed. Then she reminds herself that she’s not supposed to have known Marshall personally, so she forces her features into what she thinks is an expression of bland interest. “Oh? What have you found out about Marshall?” She belatedly adds, “I’m asking because of my true crime podcast, obviously.”

Vera leans closer to them and says in a conspiratorial voice, “I think that this Marshall guy has something people want. Something that he keep himself, very safe.”

When Sana was six, her parents took her and her sister up to Tahoe and Sana saw snow for the very first time. She and her sister had flung themselves into the soft snowbanks and threw snowballs at each other, laughing and shrieking. She remembers her sister grabbing the back of Sana’s jacket from behind and dumping a fistful of snow down her collar and the shock of the cold freezing the back of her neck before slithering down her back. This moment feels exactly like someone dumped a handful of snow down her neck. Something that Marshall kept safe? How does Vera know?

But before Sana can say anything, Vera claps once and standsup. “Okay, you all done drinking tea? Come upstair and help me carry something down. You young people are much stronger than me. Come!” she barks when both Sana and Riki remain sitting, looking stunned.

Sana and Riki stand at the same time and exchange another helpless glance before following Vera up the narrow, rickety stairs. Faded pictures hang on the wall, many of them crumbling inside their old-fashioned, chipped frames. The second floor turns out to be Vera’s living quarters, a small, dark space filled to the gills with what looks like broken, ancient junk. Sana eyes the towering piles of old newspapers and magazines, the cobwebbed sewing machine, an old typewriter missing half its keys, and boxes probably filled with similarly unusable items. It’s a familiar sight to her. Her parents’ house is pristine because her mother is ruthless about keeping her house immaculate for the many interviews and videos she shoots for her fans, but as a kid, whenever Sana visited her friends’ homes, especially the first-generation kids, she’d often find houses filled with crumbling boxes full of stuff. Mementos from their parents’ homeland, too old to use, too precious to throw away, too painful to look at. So they are left to age gently, a reminder of everyone who was left behind.

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