Page 93 of Not That Impossible

It was camouflage. It said,I am owned by a sweet and whimsical driver!Not even a hint that a vicious retired English teacher was the one behind the wheel.

There was no sign of Mrs Strickland. I was here first! Unless she’d taken the other road that ran parallel to Sycamore Close.

I parked at the back of Mrs Hughes’ house, took off my parka because it was a warm day and I was having a bit of a panic sweat, and tossed it onto the passenger seat. I dug my notebook and pen out of my gym bag, stuffed them in the pocket of my sweatpants along with my phone, and got out the car.

It wasn’t trespass if the property owner didn’t mind, I told myself as I approached Mrs Hughes’ larch-lap back fence.

She hadn’t exactly issued me an open invitation to cut across her lawn any time I was on official journalist business, but she hadn’t prosecuted me, either.

I decided I could take that to mean it wouldn’t betoobig of a deal if I indulged in another shortcut.

I put my hands on the fence, popped myself up and over, and landed in a crouch.

“Oh, damn,” I said as I straightened. “Um. Hi, Mrs Hughes. Lovely weather today.”

She was in the middle of hanging her washing on the line, and was staring at me. Her lips twitched. “Morning, Jasper,” she said.

I pointed at the side alley that led to the front. “Sorry. Do you mind if I…?”

“By all means,” she said.

“Sorry. Won’t make a habit of it. Thanks!” I ran over the lawn, pausing to pat a bewildered-looking Dougal, and made it to the gravel path before she said,

“Out of curiosity, though, any particular reason you’re jumping over my fence today?”

“Uh, another dead—I mean. It’s reporter business. Journalist stuff.”

She gasped. “Ray found another dead body?”

“I don’t know, I think so, lemme go check,” I said over my shoulder, and ran.

“Don’t forget, I keep the side gate locked!” she called after me.

“No problem,” I called back, and scaled it. Up and over.

My phone fell out of my pocket and hit the asphalt with a smack. Face first, of course.

“Fuck.” Oh, well. I’d go and raid my mum’s phone museum tomorrow.

I swept it up from the ground, stuffed it back into my pocket, glanced up, and locked eyes with Liam Nash.

“Fuck,” I said again, this time with feeling.

He was talking to a paramedic on the other side of the road. The paramedic was leaning her shoulders against her ambulance, ankles crossed.

Liam pinned me across the distance with blistering disapproval. His gaze raked the full length of my body, from my pink t-shirt which saidPUMP IT!!!to my battered trainers and back up to my face, before he turned back to listen to whatever the paramedic was saying.

The front of Ray’s house was cluttered with cars and official-looking people, the door was open, and people were shuttling in and out. Some of them were wearing familiar white forensics bunny suits, carrying lights and cables, and ominous black crates.

I whipped out my notebook and started jotting down some notes and observations that I could plug into an article.

I was stalling.

I had to go over there and attempt to get someone to talk to me in a moment, but it was fine to soak up the atmosphere first. Get a feel for the vibe.

“Do you think he did it?” someone said beside me.

I flinched and looked down. “Mrs Strickland.”

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