It’s a dark afternoon. I’m no closer to solving the case than I was the day Dr. Merriweather died, even after trekking down to the city hall to sweet-talk the kind little old lady at the counter into giving me all of the complaints lodged by Dr. Merriweather against these small-town residents.
My feet carry me to his office. But someone’s been here before me. The place is probably ransacked.
The door is ajar—like a bad present half wrapped, begging to be opened. I pushed it inward slowly, and the hinges creak like an old carol sung off-key. The lobby smells of pine cleaner and stale peppermint schnapps. A sad little tree slumps in the corner, its lights blinking like a guilty conscience.
The stairs loom ahead—narrow, steep, the kind of stairs that whisper secrets when you climb them. I take them one at a time, my hand brushing the banister, which is sticky from forgotten candy cane fingers. Each step is a drumbeat, each creak a warning….
I hear someone up there. Is it the murderer returning to the scene of the crime?
I reach for my gun.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The door to Dr. Merriweather’s office, at the top of the stairs, is flung open.
“Willow?” I fumble my pistol back into the holster.
“Were you gonna blast someone with that peashooter?”
“No!” I’m defensive.
“He almost dropped it, did you see?” Josie pulls the lollipop she’s sucking on out of her mouth.
“No, I didn’t!”
“What are you doing here?” Willow narrows her eyes.
“What areyoudoing here?” I demand. “This is a crime scene.”
“Yeah, we’re investigating the crime,” Josie shoots at me.
“Moron,” Willow mutters.
My heart’s beating a little fast. Part of me is glad it wasn’t actually the murderer up here.
“So, what’d you find?” I ask her.
“Typical man. Shows up, wants to copy a girl’s homework.”
“Or we can all wait around here while I search the same places you searched, and maybe in that time, the police will stop by and arrest all of us,” I say dryly.
“Not Josie. She’s special.”
I pull out a black light.
“He wasn’t murdered here. Why do you need that?” Willow complains as I flick off the lights and close the curtain.
“Oof, it looks like someone was murdered here.”
“Seriously?” Willow appears in my phone viewfinder. “That’s like semen and pussy-juice stains.”
I feel my face get hot when she says the word “pussy.”
“Oh, that’s—” I drop my phone, bend to pick it up, and realize that I’m practically looking under her skirt. I try not to freak out. “That’s, um—”
“Gross! It’s gross! We were sitting on that couch. Blech!” Willow makes retching noises.
“I’m going to wash with bleach when I get home.” Josie makes a face.
“That explains the panties.” Willow sighs then shows me the little plastic baggie containing pink underwear. “Recognize them?”
