Page 105 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“Then take your Yelp review elsewhere.”

We finish up Louis with a cotton-candy-pink undercut that I am frankly a little jealous of, and then pull out the calendar again before we start on Jean.

“He’s going to be the real trouble,” Benny says, switching out blades. “I’m not even sure we should try, honestly.”

“Oh, I have a plan,” I say and hop up to check out Benny’s pantry. It’s surprisingly well stocked, and I make a mental note to not let him seemypantry, which makes me look like an orphaned eleven-year-old.

Bingo. I hold the jar of creamy peanut butter in the air. “Ta-da!”

Benny waffles for a moment, and then he gives up with a shrug. “We’re already in this deep, might as well go all the way.”

I unscrew the lid, and Jean starts to hyperventilate with excitement—once I put the jar down, he flops to the floor, grabs it with two paws, and then nothing else exists for him. This is definitely going to work. “Okay, you start on his legs, and I’ll have a plan by the time you’re done.”

I reach for the calendar, flipping to this month for reference. My eyes drift from the photo down to the individual entries for the month. A few days ago, I was so busy forging an entry of my ownthat I didn’t appreciate how spooky it is to see everything Cran had planned for his alive self this month. Spooky and bittersweet. All the details of a life, crammed into each little box: exercise, heart rate stats, fasting—

Wait.

I reread the cramped, angular penmanship from the week Cran died.

Benny’s talking to me, but I’m not hearing him.

My mind is reeling.

Whoever poisoned Cran—they didn’t get to him through the pickles. He wasn’t eating pickles, not that week.

He’d been fasting.

According to his own handwriting on his calendar, Cran was on a lemon juice fast the week he died. I know all about that! I squirted lemon water into Chris’s eyes right before the Zoom penis debacle. When you do that fast, you don’t eat. Nothing. Not a single pickle.

But the medical report wouldn’t have been wrong, so how would Cran have gotten botulism if he wasn’t eating? Is there another delivery method than pickles?

And that’s when I belatedly put two very important pieces together.

Botoxis made of botulism. Obviously.It’s the same bacteria! Or whatever!

It’s been such a whirlwind of murders and money and low-level government corruption that I somehow didn’t make the connection.

But you know who did?Chris.So when I asked him about fatal botulism rates, he thought I was thinking about getting Botox, and he figured, in classic me fashion, I was panicking about dying from it. That’s why he sent me the texts about makeup and Kendra’s Groupon after we talked at the Petty Pig—he wasn’t trying to be adick, he was trying to besupportive.

I mean, he was also kind of being a dick.

Oh shit.

I don’t realize I actually said it out loud until I hear Benny ask, “What’s up?”

Cran was obsessed with his appearance.Heprobably got Botox. Sowhat ifsomeone paid off Cran’s aesthetician or dermatologist or whatever to inject him with too much Botox? And that’s how he died? It’s the perfect crime! Even better than a gas leak!

I frantically flip back and forth through the months. I just need to find the appointment.

“What?” Benny says again.

Shit. Nothing. No doctor appointments. No Botox.

Okay, Mo. Breathe. Don’t be a Tond. Don’t spiral. Don’t jump to conclusions, because that just makes people mad at you.

I have to be okay with not having all the pieces of the story just yet. Even if I hate it.

“Never mind,” I say, trying not to be frustrated.