Page 29 of Mad Mabel

Libby says: “We’re investigative journalists, Ms. Fitzpatrick. I understand you go by your middle name, Elsie, and your mother’s maiden name, but your name is still legally Mabel Waller, so it wasn’t difficult. Yours was the second door we knocked on.”

“I’d definitely recommend you tighten up your security and unlist your address,” Adeem says, “given the new interest in your case.”

“My… case?”

“Adeem and I have spent a great deal of time studying the facts of your story. Personally I’ve always thought there was more to it than what was reported at the time. I mean, weknowthere was, considering you were never allowed to give your side. And now there’s been another death, it’s never been more important to clear your name.”

“I’m sorry…? ” They are talking too fast. Why do I need to clear my name? “I’m afraid I’m lost. What the dickens are you talking about?”

“We read the article. As far as we’re concern—”

“What article?” My voice sounds sharper than intended.

They pause for a beat, surprised. “It was all over the internet yesterday. About your neighbor who died.”

It takes a second to land. Ishaan. Of course. But why was there an article about Ishaan? He keeled over, presumably from old ageor heart failure—or possibly from Nugget’s attitude. It was sad, but not suspicious.

“For pity’s sake! Why is everyone so interested in the death of an irritating old bastard who lived for ninety-three long years? I’ve seen popes farewelled with less fanfare.”

Adeem pulls a device out of his rucksack—one of those rectangular things that seem to control young people’s brains—and taps away. A moment later, he turns the screen to face me.

82-YEAR-OLD CONVICTED MURDERER “MAD” MABEL WALLER QUESTIONED OVER THE SUSPICIOUS DEATH OF “NEMESIS” NEIGHBOR

I stare at the headline, and for a moment, everything is still. There it is—dragged out of the dark like a corpse from a swamp. Convicted murderer. Mad Mabel. I haven’t been called that—to my face—in a very long time, but one doesn’t forget how it feels.

Now here it is again, shameless and blinking in bright typeface—distributed to the world. Or at least to my part of the world.

“I’m eighty-one,” I whisper.

No one says anything. The only sound is Nugget growling low from her cushion like she senses the storm coming. I press my lips together. Steady, Elsie.

“As YouTubers, we have a lot of freedom around how we want to do this,” Libby says gently, “and we have a strong preference for uncut footage from you, so you could rest assured we wouldn’t twist your words. The reason we want to speak to you is that we think there’s a lot more to the case than people know.”

“So,” Adeem says, “will you speak with us?”

Beyond them, in the laneway, another pretty blond womanemerges from a white van bearing the logo of a television station. She joins a man holding a camera. Before he can even point the camera at me, another car pulls up outside Mrs. Nguyen’s house. Into her parking spot. I see the camera equipment through the back passenger window. I look back at the headline.

“What do you say?” Libby says.

“I’m eighty-one,” I say, and I close the door quickly before anyone can stop me.

18

“As I said to the last girly I spoke to, and the girly before that, I don’twantto make an appointment!”

Truly, I’ve never understood people’s fixation with in-person meetings. Under ideal circumstances, a telephone call is more than enough to convey information. And these are far from ideal circumstances.

It’s been twenty-four hours since those YouTube interlopers knocked on my door with their camera-ready teeth and cheerful accusations, and since then, my street has turned into a live set for some true crime melodrama. Reporters, strangers, people with boom mics and bad intentions—hovering, whispering, snapping photos.

I’ve always preferred to keep to myself. But now, I’m not just hiding for comfort. I’m hiding because I’m scared. Not that I’d admit it out loud. Not even to Daphne. But it’s not the first time the world has turned on me. I don’t know if I could withstand it a second time.

“We really do prefer clients to come in—”

“I’m eighty-one!” I snap. “A crotchety, slightly confused, possibly deranged murder suspect! And you think I should what—catch the tram down and queue up like I’m getting my blood pressure checked?”

“You tell ’em, Else,” Daphne chimes in, pumping a fist.

She’s planted herself next to me on the sofa, close enough to hear every word and—more important—to keep an eye on me. She made it through the crowd this morning wearing a neon green poncho with the hood drawn so tightly she looked like an incognito tennis ball.