CHAPTER 1
A Call From A Possible Serial Killer
ANICA
Iwas elbow-deep in the bride’s petticoats when the string quartet texted, “Running late lol.”
Because nothing says “professional musicians” like announcing your tardiness to the Wedding of the Century with an abbreviation that went out of style in 2010.
“No, I need the string quartetnow. Tell them traffic isn’t an excuse when they signed a contract that specifically mentioned their firstborn children as collateral!” I barked into my earpiece while simultaneously MacGyvering the torn hem of a twenty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown with dental floss and what might have been a bobby pin I found in my hair. The bride, sweet, perfect Lissa, stood trembling above me like a wedding cake topper having an existential crisis. Her gown had not only caught on her father’s wheelchair exactly seven minutes before they were supposed to go down the aisle, but had also somehow attracted the venue’s resident cat, who was now batting at the sequins from a suspiciously close distance.
“Mmmmph,” I mumbled around the pins.
“What was that, Anica?” Devonna’s voice crackled in my ear.
I secured the final pin and removed the others from my mouth. “I said, tell the quartet I’ll personally ensure they neverwork another wedding in the tri-state area if they’re not here in ten minutes. Then call the DJ and have him ready with the processional music as backup. And get someone to remove the cat before it turns this dress into a five-figure scratching post.”
“Already on all three,” my assistant replied. I could hear her fingers flying across her tablet. “Also, the best man just threw up in the koi pond.”
Of course he did. Probably the same best man who thought seven tequila shots at the rehearsal dinner was “getting a head start on the celebration.”
“Is he visible from the ceremony site?” I asked, standing to inspect my handiwork on the dress. The repair was invisible unless you were specifically looking for it, which no one would be, because I’ve developed ninja-level stealth techniques for emergency dress repair after nine years in the business.
“No, but the venue manager is freaking out about the fish.”
“Tell him I’ll pay for any casualties. And get the best man some mouthwash, activated charcoal, and coffee strong enough to raise the dead. If he ruins this wedding with alcohol breath, I’ll personally ensure his dating profile specifies ‘vomits at formal occasions.’”
I looked up at Lissa, whose mascara was starting to run. Raccoon eyes were not part of her carefully curated bridal vision board. I reached for the emergency makeup kit I kept strapped to my thigh like a weapon. After the Great Bridesmaid Mascara Flood of 2022, I never went to a wedding without waterproof everything.
“You’re perfect,” I assured her, dabbing at her under-eyes. “And your dress looks flawless. No one will ever know. Least of all your future husband, who is currently so love-drunk he wouldn’t notice if you walked down the aisle in a potato sack.”
That got a wobbly smile, which was all I needed. Happy bride, happy hide—mine, specifically, which remained intact for another wedding day.
The door burst open with the force of a SWAT team raid, and Mari swept in with an open bottle of champagne and three flutes dangling between her fingers. My business partner and best friend had an almost supernatural sense for when alcohol was required, like a sommelier with ESP.
“Emergency bubbles!” she announced, pouring generous servings. “Bride gets double. Wedding planner gets triple, but has to pretend it’s water.”
“Mari, you’re a goddess,” Lissa whispered, accepting the glass with shaking hands.
“Just doing my job as second-in-command to the Wedding Wizard here.” Mari shot me a wink while handing me a glass. “Drink up, boss. The quartet just pulled up looking like they escaped a hostage situation, the best man is getting hosed down by two very annoyed groomsmen, and I’ve dispatched the ring bearer’s mother to confiscate his Nintendo Switch and the slingshot I caught him making out of rubber bands and corsage pins.”
I knocked back the champagne in one gulp. “That child is a terrorist disguised as a seven-year-old.”
“That’s why I slipped the wedding photographer an extra hundred to get action shots when the kid inevitably tries to dive-bomb the cake,” Mari replied. “We can sell them to his future prom date in ten years.”
Lissa laughed despite her nerves, which was exactly Mari’s intention. Good cop, bad cop. Our signature dynamic. I kept things running; Mari kept everyone smiling through the chaos.
Devonna appeared in the doorway, tablet clutched to her chest. My assistant wore her usual expression of contained panic, which somehow never affected her efficiency. Thatwoman could plan an evacuation during an alien invasion and still manage to make it to afternoon tea.
“The officiant is in position, the groom has stopped hyperventilating, and the quartet is setting up now,” she reported. “Also, I’ve confiscated all pens from the flower girls after finding them drawing tattoos on each other.”
“Smart.” Last month we’d had flower girls who arrived at the altar looking like tiny convicts on leave. “We’re back on schedule?”
“We’re three minutes and forty-seven seconds behind, but we can make it up if the father of the bride doesn’t stop for his emotional speech in the middle of the aisle like he threatened to during rehearsal.”
“I cut the brake lines on his wheelchair,” Mari whispered to me.
My eyes widened in horror.
