Page 64 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“Right,” I say. “Roger that.”

He looks at me weird but steps aside so I can leave.

The line under the house? What does that mean? It’s not something I’ve ever thought before—butmanI wish I understood utilities better.

I get outside and glance next door at the construction site. Marlowe mentioned safety issues there. Was itgas-related safety issues? It really seems like there’s some connection here—the construction site, Claudia not selling her house, her death by gas, Cran’s death and evil Tond and the Funeral Deep Throat.

My head is spinning, and not just from sucking in gas.

As I dizzily make my way back to the street, I spot a few gas company guys leaning on the truck. One of them is smoking a cigarette, which seems ill-advised under the circumstances.

Ugh, I suck at recon. But what else can I do?Confidence, Mo. Think of the hat. Do it for Claudia.

“Hey!” I shout, sauntering over. Their vests are slightly different from mine, but they also look like they don’t give a shit. I thrust a thumb back at the house. “Big fella in there told me the leak is coming from the line under the house.”

One of them snorts. “Yeah, no shit.”

I lift my hard hat and wipe the sweat from my brow dramatically. “Good thing no one was working on that parking garage when this happened, huh? Could’ve been way, way worse. Remind me why that is?”

The three of them look at me for the first time. There is an extremely awkward pause.

“What’s up,” I say.

“I’m new,” I say.

“Welp,” I say.

The smoker takes a long drag.

“They stopped construction because of the gas line.” He shrugs. “But they didn’t cover up the hole so maybe something fell in there, nicked the pipe. Or maybe a rat chewed on it. Bam. Lady died two, tree hours later.”

“Right,” the second guy snorts. “A rat fell into the hole, bounced all the way under the house, chewed a hole in the pipe, and then the wind blew the gas right into the old lady’s window. This jagoff’s a friggin’ Einstein.”

“Yeah or it was your wife, cuz she’s tired of chewing onyourpipe, heyo!” the third guy says, high-fiving the second.

“What did I tell you?” the smoker shouts, flicking his cigarette. “What did I fuggin’ say?”

“Great, yep, awesome, thanks, guys,” I say and slip away while they yell and poke index fingers into each other’s chests.

It wasn’t a rat. Or a rock. Or, uh, that guy’s wife. Somehow,someonemessed with Claudia’s gas pipes and killed her on purpose.

No, not someone.

Tond.

And whoever his funeral buddy was.

Which I’m about to find out.

I subtly hold the phone up, and from down the block, Marlowe gives me an approving nod.

In short order, Marlowe convinces me we need to look at the doorbell footage on a big screen at her school’s media center.

“We need to see all the details,” she calls, already halfway to the school. “High-def!” I toss the hard hat over the fence where it belongs and stuff my vest in my back pocket, jogging to catch up, already deeply regretting every decision that has led me to this moment.

The front desk receptionist clearly adores Marlowe and checks us in with alarmingly few questions. A few minutes later, we’re in the media center.

“Mrs. Warren.” Marlowe breaks into a huge grin and waves the phone at the media specialist behind the counter. “How’s big Tony?”