Page 55 of Vera Wong's Unsolicited Advice for Murderers

“She does,” Julia says. “And flowers, and people, and it all looks magical, doesn’t it?”

Emma nods. “I drew a bird of parrot ties.”

“Bird of parrot ties?” Oliver imagines Emma drawing two parrots tied together.

“Paradise,” Julia says.

“Ah.” Oliver grins down at Emma. “That makes more sense. I would love to see that. You’ll have to show me the next time we see each other.”

“We’ll see,” Emma says, and turns her attention back to her fingers.

Coming from Emma, that’s a pretty hopeful note to end on. Oliver looks around the shop. “Okay, Riki said he’ll work on the furniture, I’ve fixed up the electrics and the plumbing, so...” Heshoves his hands in his pockets, feeling suddenly awkward. “I guess that’s that. There’s not much for you and me to do for now.” Part of him is aching because he doesn’t want to leave the teahouse just yet, because leaving probably means him going in one direction and Julia and Emma going in the other.

He has no idea how to feel about their renewed friendship. Not just because of their history, but also because Vera has told him that Sana and Riki are no longer suspects, which leaves, uh, well, him and Julia. And as much as Oliver hates to think about it, can barely bear to see Julia in this way, he can’t deny how strong she is underneath the broken layers, that the core of her is made of steel. If he’d been the one married to Marshall, would he not snap as well? Would he not plot a way to escape the toxic marriage? Sometimes, the suspicion hits him like a wave and leaves him shivering in its wake, not knowing where to cast his eye.

The silence is broken by Julia asking, “How’s your dad doing?”

That catches him off guard. “I don’t know,” he admits finally. “I haven’t seen him for a while now. I text him most mornings, but he rarely replies.” Just saying those words makes Oliver realize what a terrible son he is. So what if he regularly drops off groceries at his dad’s door? It’s such a laughably small act, just a token gesture, really, more to do with making himself feel better than actually helping out his dad.

“Wanna go visit him?” Julia says. “I mean, his place isn’t far away, and it might be nice...”

“Sure.” Inside, Oliver is quivering with a series of nos. But somehow, his limbs move to leave the safe cocoon of Vera’s shop.

Julia suggests that they pick up some groceries, as well as pastries for his dad, so they walk to Stockton Street, where Julia picksout the best produce, before they stop by a bakery, where the three of them sit around a small table and Emma digs into a pineapple bun that’s as big as her face.

“I like pineapple buns,” Emma declares in her surprisingly deep voice.

Oliver breaks into a grin as he gazes fondly at his little niece. How the hell did someone like Marshall help create this wonderful creature? For a fleeting moment, Oliver allows himself to imagine that he’s out with his family, that Julia is his wife and Emma is his daughter. The shame comes in a jagged stab. God, that was a terrible thought to have, fantasizing about his dead brother’s wife and child. He clears his throat and asks Julia how the photo editing is going.

Julia’s whole face brightens up at the mention of it. “I’ve finished editing all Cassie’s photos, and they look amazing! Twenty-seven good ones in total, out of over four hundred. You have to tell me what you think.” She digs out her phone from her back pocket, locates the photos, and hands the phone to him.

Even back in high school, Oliver always knew that Julia had real talent. It was one of the things he was furious at Marshall about; he’d watched as Marshall gently coaxed Julia away from photography, and he’d told Marshall to quit it one day, which led to the two of them not speaking to each other for more than a month. He knows she has the talent, but even so, seeing the pictures of Cassie takes his breath away. Behind the camera, Julia turns into something else. Something that is part camera, part human. Somehow, she instinctively knows how to position her subjects to get the most dramatic angles, and how to manipulate the lighting to bring out their souls.

Although Oliver has never met Cassie or seen any of hervideos, just from the photos that Julia took, he feels like he knows Cassie. He can practically hear her laughter—it would be full of life and have the slightest tone of bashfulness behind it. He can see the fire in Cassie’s eyes, the determined set of her jawline, so artistically touched by the late Californian sunset.

“Holy shit,” he says. “These are crazy good, Lia.”

Julia rolls her eyes, biting back the smile. “Oh, stahp.”

“I’m being serious. Have you sent them to her yet?”

“No. I’ll do it tonight. I was kind of worried about them, I guess. I was procrastinating a little.”

Oliver hands her the phone. “I don’t know what you’re worried about; these are mind-blowing. I promise you she’s going to be so happy with these.”

Julia pockets her phone with a smile. “Okay, dork. Thank you.”

There is so much that Oliver wants to say. He wants to tell her how happy he is that she’s picked up photography again. He wants to tell her that he’s missed her. How he’s longed to have her by his side. As a lover, yes, but most of all, as a friend. He’s missed being able to chat with her over lunch, or on their walks to and from school. He still remembers the way Julia carried her backpack, with her thumbs tucked into the straps. He wants to tell her all these things, but he knows that none of them is appropriate, not under the circumstances. And he’s so grateful for her company that he doesn’t want to risk annoying her. So he simply nods.

When they’re done, they pick up everything they’ve bought for Oliver’s dad and walk over to his place. Oliver rings the buzzer, and when his dad’s voice rasps out of it, Oliver says, “Hi, Baba, it’s me. With Julia and Emma.”

There is a pause, then his dad says, “I can’t. Not today.”

“But we got food for you.” Oliver glances at Julia and Emma,hating the plummeting feeling in his stomach. He can’t believe that his dad is refusing to see his own granddaughter. What the fuck is wrong with him? Sure, Oliver has always known that Marshall was his dad’s favorite, but surely this is crossing the line. Emma is his only grandkid. Most grandparents would be rushing down the stairs and picking Emma up in a flying hug. Emma, too young to understand what’s happening, is waving her index fingers like a tiny conductor and going, “Da-dee-da-dum,” under her breath. Oliver looks at Julia helplessly. She shrugs, then leans over to speak into the buzzer.

“Hi, Baba,” she calls out. “We’ll just leave the food by the door, okay? You can come and get it whenever you like. And if you ever want some company, just give me or Ollie a call.”

There is a long silence, and they place the shopping bags on the ground. They’re about to leave when the speaker crackles to life. Oliver turns back quickly, expecting the buzzer to go off and the gate to unlock, but all Baba says is, “Don’t come here again.”

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