“No, he’s not. You take that back,” Nana says, jumping to my defense. “You’re not, are you?” she whispers out of the side of her mouth.
“No. I know how this all works.” I gesture awkwardly.
“Wonderful! I’m going to cancel the Airbnb guest I have coming to the carriage house and let you two have an early Christmas—not the big house,” Nana warns me. “I finally got that rented out. And to think it was a murder that made true lovehappen.” Nana swoons. “Jonah being murdered is the best thing to ever happen to us!”
17
WILLOW
I’m so close to nailing Taylor Grace. She murdered Jonah and tried to blame it on me, and now she’s trying to steal my man.
Wait, my man?
I look across the room to where Hughes is talking to some of our grandmothers’ friends. Now that he’s ditched the trench coat and the fedora—and I’m on my second cup of too-strong Christmas punch—I could be convinced to admit that he is pretty hot, and I could see myself—with a few more cups of punch—sleeping with him.
Tonight.
Maybe.
But probably.
We’re only half an hour in, but the party’s hopping.
The crowd titters when a tall blond man enters the room and looks around as he takes off his coat.
Mace, Josie’s husband, maneuvers through the space. “I thought Josie was here,” he says, frowning. He sounds concerned.
“Oh! No, she said she went back home to get changed,” I tell him. “I haven’t seen her at all this afternoon.”
“You’re sure she’s not here? There’s no answer when I call her.”
I can feel Mace getting more distressed by the second.
“We’ll find her. She probably got distracted by something. You know how she is.” I give him a pained smile.
He doesn’t return it.
“I’m sure she’s fine.”
“There’s a murderer running loose around town.” Mace’s voice is dangerously flat. “I’m going to call the police, and—”
“Oh, Josie!” Gran cries, running to the door, where another pack of guests is arriving. “Isn’t that the cutest sweater? Did you see her sweater?”
Mace’s shoulders drop in relief. “Josie, where were you?”
“I got a hole in my sweater, and I had to buy some yarn to fix it, then I realized, duh, I actually don’t know how to knit, so I went to the Christmas market to find a new sweater, and I just lost track of time,” my friend rambles.
“You’re such a disaster,” Mace says affectionately.
“Ooh, are those cupcakes?” Josie perks up.
“The ones in the back have extra gummy snowmen. Help yourself. Be back in a sec,” I tell her, still feeling a little shaky.
Like anyone’s going to murder Josie. She’s Mace Svensson’s wife. No murderer is that stupid. I’m just being drunk and paranoid. I grab the bundle of coats from the couch, ferry them to one of the upstairs bedrooms, and dump them onto the bed.
“I need to put the Brie-and-prosciutto pinwheels in the oven,” I tell myself as I mentally go through the to-do list. They’re going fast. And I stare down at my hands—they’re covered in blood.
Oh God. I look around, turning my hands this way and that in the lamplight. I flick on the overhead light. Am I bleeding? Did I get stabbed? I didn’t have blood on my hands earlier, right?
