Page 21 of Vera Wong's Unsolicited Advice for Murderers

Vera nods happily. “Good idea, yes. Put her on speaker, there’s a good boy.”

Oliver gives her a look. “I’m not putting her on speaker.”

Young people nowadays. Vera tuts but decides to let him have his way on this one. She’s lived long enough to know the importance of picking your battles. She waits patiently as Oliver calls Marshall’s wife, pricking her ears when the call is answered. In the silence in the car, she can hear the woman’s voice on the other end ever so faintly. Marshall’s wife sounds lovely, she thinks. Not at all like a murderer (or murderess?), but then again, you never know nowadays, do you?

“Hey, Julia. It’s me. How’re you holding up?” Oliver grimaces to himself.

Vera notes with interest that Oliver’s voice has turned soft and tender. Well, well. She makes a mental note of this obvious show of affection. Perhaps a motivation for killing Marshall?

“Yeah, uh, listen, this is going to sound really weird, but, uh, is it okay if I drop by? Just for a bit. There are some people with me who want to meet you. I know it’s probably the worst time...”

“Tell her I cook lots of food,” Vera hisses, nudging Oliver brutally with her elbow.

Oliver winces and tries to move away from her, but there’s not much room inside the car, and Vera is able to get another vicious elbow nudge in before he bats her arm away. “We have food. Lots of it.”

“Chinese barbecued pork, when Tilly is a toddler, oh, he can eat a whole one himself. Her child will love it.”

Oliver pauses as Julia says something, then sighs, closing his eyes. “It’s a long story.” A moment later, his eyes fly open and hesits up straight. “Really? Okay. We’ll be right over.” He hangs up with a look of disbelief.

Vera doesn’t even bother trying to hide her smug smile. “See? What I tell you? Nobody can resist Chinese barbecued pork.”

Yes, her investigation is going very well indeed. She should have known she would be a natural at this.

TWELVE

JULIA

They never tell you these things about motherhood. Things like your toddler having the ability to literally wrap herself around your leg and cling on like a little octopus as you hobble around the house, grabbing trash bags stuffed full of your dead husband’s things and shoving them in the home office. Okay, maybe that last part has more to do with marriage than it does with toddlers.

“Sweetie, can you let go of Mommy, please?” Julia says for the fourth time as she lifts an excruciatingly heavy bag. It has a pair of dumbbells inside, she realizes, and a part of her knows that she should take out the dumbbells, but it’s also the same part of her brain that’s currently preoccupied with (1) Emma’s limbs resolutely suctioned around her left leg; (2) Oliver dropping by with a couple of friends; and (3) one of his friends having mentioned Chinese barbecued pork, and despite everything, Julia could really do with a slice of the sticky-sweet, savory pork. So she doesn’t take out the dumbbells and instead gives the bag a hard yank, after which, of course, the bottom rips and out fall dumbbellsand adult Lego sets and ski jackets and all sorts of other stuff. “Shit,” she cries, and immediately feels terrible for swearing in front of Emma. “I mean shoot.”

“You said ‘shit,’ ” Emma says into Julia’s leg.

“No, no. I said ‘shoot,’ you just heard wrong because you’ve got an ear pressed into my leg.” Oh god, now she’s gaslighting her daughter, and she hates herself even more. “No, you’re right. Mommy did say ‘shit.’ ”

“Shit! Shit!” Emma shouts, laughing.

Maybe she should’ve continued gaslighting Emma? What’s the right thing to do here? Well, the right thing is obviously to not say “shit” in the first place. And now Julia wants to cry, because she isn’t just a terrible wife whose husband left her right before dying, she’s also a shitty mom who, whenever Emma nurses, scrolls through Instagram nonstop and wonders how the other moms have everything so put together. How do they have the time and energy and brain space to dress their kids up in color-coordinated outfits when Julia can barely find a single pair of matching socks for Emma? How do they have the time to braid their daughters’ hair into such intricate hairstyles when Julia can barely even brush Emma’s hair?

And what about the fact that Emma seems so very unaffected by Marshall’s absence? Julia hasn’t told her that Marshall is dead because she has no idea how to explain the concept of death, and Emma only asked once where Daddy was, and when Julia said Daddy wouldn’t be coming home, Emma only nodded and went back to playing with her Duplo. Is that a normal reaction to have to the news that your dad wouldn’t be coming home? Maybe it’s normal for her because even when he was alive, Marshall was hardly ever around anyway, and when he was, he was alwayscriticizing Emma. Or maybe Marshall was right and there’s something wrong with Emma. Julia can’t remember a time when her life did not revolve around worrying about Emma, or worrying about what Marshall might think.

The doorbell rings then, and Julia freezes. She’s nowhere near ready. Emma is still shouting “Shit!” and now there’s a pile of Marshall’s stuff right here behind the front door and—Julia glances down at her clothes—yep, she’s still in her pajamas. Well, they’re not technically pajamas—she’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt stained with egg yolk and mushed-up broccoli—but she did sleep in these clothes, so maybe they count as pajamas? The point is, she’s a mess, and she’s about to see Oliver for the first time in years. And his friends. She can’t possibly let them see her like this, she—

“Hello?” someone calls out. It sounds like an elderly woman. “Julia, is it? It’s Oliver here, with Vera!”

Who’s Vera?

“I bring lots of food! Braised pork belly, chili garlic chicken popcorn, Chinese barbecued pork...”

It’s the mention of food that bypasses all Julia’s insecurities. She’s been having nothing but canned tuna ever since Marshall left (Emma has been fed cereal and steamed veggies, which she largely refuses) and her stomach goes:Screw you, brain, I’m telling right arm to open the door. The door is opened, and Julia catches a glimpse of Oliver before a graying Asian woman pops in between them, wearing a huge smile.

“Ah, Julia! So nice to finally meet you. I’m Vera, of course, but you know that. I see you outside my teahouse the other day.”

“Oh.” Julia has no idea what to say to that. Why had she run away when Vera had spotted her outside the teahouse? That must have looked so strange. Something only a guilty person would do.

“Anyway, I have so much food for you!” Still beaming, Vera slides past Julia into the house.

Julia takes a step back, stunned. Did she invite Vera inside already? Maybe she did and she forgot because my god, there are a million things running through her mind, like:Where’s the food? I can smell really delicious food, andWho are all of these people?andWow, it’s been a long time since I saw Oliver. Even though to most people, Oliver and Marshall look alike, Julia has always found numerous differences in their faces. Marshall was perhaps objectively the more good-looking of the two, with that sharp smile and excitingly wicked glint in his eyes, but Julia had always been more drawn to the kindness in Oliver’s face. Though right now, she’s too self-conscious to be drawn to anything. She’s so ashamed of how different she is now, no longer the girl he knew in high school. She looks away, unable to meet Oliver’s eyes.

---