Page 35 of Vera Wong's Unsolicited Advice for Murderers

It feels weird having thoughts like these when Marshall isdead. They seem so petty, to be remembering him this way. Shouldn’t she be mourning him more? This morning, she received a call from the medical examiner telling her that the examination is over and that she can now make funeral arrangements. In a daze, she’d opted to have him cremated because that was the cheaper option, and no service because—well, she just wasn’t sure if anyone would turn up. It had made her feel like the world’s worst wife. But now she’s trying to focus on anything but that. Focus on the charcuterie board, she tells herself.

She’s having a good time making one with Emma, which feels wrong; she probably shouldn’t be having fun putting together a charcuterie board so soon after Marshall’s death. But Emma is having a great time smearing her little fingers with fig jam and then licking them off and then dipping the fingers back into the jam pot, and Julia is telling her off but also laughing, and maybe everything will be okay? There is no way that their savings can last beyond next month’s mortgage payment, so Julia has no idea what she’s going to do then, but for now, she’s making a charcuterie board with her daughter and she doesn’t have to worry about Marshall telling her that it’s shit. Things could be worse.

Emma’s just fussing over the charcuterie board, putting grapes down here and there with fierce concentration, the tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth, when the doorbell goes off.

“That’ll be Uncle Ollie,” Julia says, and for a second, Emma looks scared. “Are you gonna be okay?” It’s strange, asking Emma this, when in the past, they didn’t have a choice but to be okay with any visitors, because Marshall thought asking Emma stuff like this is “pandering” to her and encouraging her to be difficult.

Emma looks at her, then down at the charcuterie board, which admittedly isn’t one of Julia’s best because a lot of the deli meatsand cheese have splodges of little jam fingerprints on them. “Will Uncle Ollie like this?”

Julia doesn’t even think twice before saying, “Of course.” Only after she says those words does it hit her how true they are, because Ollie has always liked what she liked.

Emma nods solemnly. “Then Emma is okay.” Her little jam-smeared face looks so brave that Julia crouches down and gives her a tight hug. How did she end up with such a special girl?

Emma chooses to stay in the living room while Julia opens the door; she’s still not a fan of greeting people at the door.

“Hey,” Oliver says with a smile and hands her a paper bag. “I got you some cookies. They’re whole-grain?”

Julia laughs at the uncertainty in his voice. “You didn’t have to. Come on in.”

They walk inside the house and find Emma hiding behind the sofa. Anxiety churns in Julia’s belly. This is one of the many things Emma does that irritated Marshall to no end.It’s so embarrassing, he’d say.Can’t she just be fucking normal? Other kids her age are always running up to people and saying hi, but she’s gotta hide like some creepy kid. You’re just enabling her, Jules.

“Hey, you wanna come out of there and say hi to Uncle Ollie?” Julia can hear the tiny note of embarrassment in her voice, and she hates it, hates herself for it. The top of Emma’s head shakes to and fro, and Julia gives Oliver an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, she’s...” She doesn’t know what to say.She’s shy?Yes, but apparently you shouldn’t say such things in front of the child, lest it become their identity.

“No worries, I totally relate.” Oliver lowers his voice. “I wish I could hide behind furniture when people come over too.”

Julia laughs. “Take a seat, Emma and I made you something.”Oliver sits down on the sofa, pointedly ignoring the set of eyes peering at him from the other end, and Julia hurries to the kitchen. When she comes back with the charcuterie board, Oliver’s eyes actually light up.

“Oh wow, this looks fancy,” he says. Then he spots the little jam fingerprints on the deli meats and his smile wavers a little.

“Emma helped make the board,” Julia says, again with that note of apology in her voice.

Oliver laughs. “Awesome job, Emma.” And with that, he picks up one of the smudged pieces of meat and pops it in his mouth. “Yum. Oh, sorry, I don’t think I’m supposed to just eat the deli meat on its own, am I? I’m a beginner at this. Can anyone tell me how to put everything together?” He raises his eyebrows at Julia and the two of them hold their breaths, waiting for a response. “Okay, I guess I’m just gonna fumble through somehow.”

There’s a dramatic sigh from behind the sofa, and Emma’s head pops up. “No,” she announces in her somber voice. “You’ll ruin it.” She marches out from her hiding spot and leans over the board, inspecting it solemnly before pointing at a cracker. “Take that.”

“Okay.” Oliver does so, then follows her further instructions, spreading fig jam on the cracker before placing a slice of brie on it and layering that with some turkey. He pops the whole thing in his mouth and goes, “Mm.” After swallowing, he says, “Wow, that was the perfect bite. Thanks, Emma.”

Emma nods and proceeds to put together a perfect bite for herself, except she doesn’t bother using any tools, choosing to smear the jam on with her fingers.

“I made sure to wash her hands before you arrived,” Julia whispers.

Oliver smiles, then clears his throat. “Uh, so I went to... the apartment.”

Julia stiffens. Right, of course, this is the main reason Oliver’s here. He’s not here for a chat; it’s not a casual, friendly visit. He’s here to update her on what shady thing Marshall was involved in when he was alive. She feels panic begin to rise, churning hot and acidic in her belly, burning its way up to her chest, constricting it. He shouldn’t talk to her about this now, in front of Emma.

Maybe Oliver reads the quiet panic in Julia’s face, because he glances at Emma before nodding. “Don’t worry, there wasn’t anything... bad.”

“Really?” It’s less a question, more a plea.

“Yeah.” Oliver’s eyes soften. He’s noticed the desperation in her voice. “Really. It was strange, actually, because it was just filled with a lot of artwork. There were sculptures, paintings, photographs... and it seemed like a totally random collection. I couldn’t find any connection throughout all of them. Although, mind you, I’m not exactly an art connoisseur, so even if there had been a cohesive thread between all of them, I probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Artwork?” What the hell? It’s so far off from what Julia had been expecting—clear signs of adultery—that she has no idea how to react, or even how to think. Her late husband was never particularly artistic that she knows of. But maybe that goes to show just how little she ever knew about him. Maybe that proves that Marshall was right when he told her that she’s dumb, that she’s ignorant, that it’s a waste of time telling her anything, and that’s why everyone is so sick of her. “Was he— I mean, you were brothers—” she says haltingly. “Was he into art?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Nope, never was. I mean, I wasn’t particularly artistic myself, but I’d say I was more into creativeendeavors than he ever was. Don’t, like...” Oliver takes a deep breath. “Don’t beat yourself up over not knowing this about him, because I—well, my dad and I—are as confused as you are.”

The burning shame, that familiar feeling that’s accompanied her for years and years, recedes, just a little. It’s not just her that Marshall has hidden his interest in art from. It’s his own twin brother, and his father, which means she’s in good company. She can just about deal with that.

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