Page 107 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“Our...deal.”

I really need to make the time to watch Rodney O’Malley’s videos instead of just scrubbing through and reading the comments.

My legs feel like lead when I finally get home. I try to convince myself that Tond is okay, and I don’t need to panic. But I can feel my mind spinning off in a thousand directions. Is Tond already dead? Does the killer know I’m getting closer? Are they watching me, and from where, what if they’re in the apartment building, how well do I actually know Sheila? She’sclearlymoney motivated. What if she’s not Roy’s mom at all??

I catch myself.

Mo.

No.

Seriously, why is not spiraling so much work?

I should email Rodney O’Malley and ask him to do a special video on talking yourself down during an investigation. Because I need some coping strategies here, yeesh. No one is watching me. No one is after me. Sheila and Roy are the same kind of weirdo with the exact same face. They are definitely related. And I need to stay calm if I’m going to solve this.

Because yes, I’ve figured out a lot in the last few hours, but the murderer doesn’t know that.

Whoever they are.

Okay, sure, I haven’t figured out the most important part.

But I will.

Chapter 33

The moment I wake up the next morning, I check to see if Tond has called.

He has not.

Dang it.

It’s a school day, so the dogs and I head over to my corner, and thankfully, they are a huge hit with their new haircuts. The kids and parents are delighted and charmed by the glow-ups and it’s just the distraction I need to hide that I myself am extremely distracted.

Distracted by murder.

There’s still something I’m missing. I mean, yes, obviously—the murderer. But what I really mean is, I canalmostsee it. I have this very distinct feeling that I know something I don’t know I know.

Isn’t this what therapists are for?

Maybe I need a therapist who can help me solve murders.

Is that a category of therapist? I wonder.

I’m in the middle of this thought, kneeling in a scrum of kidsand dogs, when the dogs start barking, and something above me blocks out the sun. I blink up at the tall, rumpled shape backlit against the sky.

Is that... Tond?

It’s Tond!

He’s alive!

His face is drawn, his hair is greasy-floppy, and the dark shadows under his eyes look ghoulish, giving him a decidedly unhinged-adult-man-standing-outside-a-grade-school look.

“Oh thank god!” I say, breaking up the poodle petting zoo situation and ushering the kids along to school. “I was worried about you.”

“Mo,” Tond whispers urgently, grabbing my elbow. “You promised to keep me alive and then you just vanished, and I haven’t heard from you in days. I could’ve been murdered so many times already.”

“Well, you didn’t give me your number,” I hiss. “I went to your house—”