“—I want to point out that I succeeded through my wit and grace and charming personality—”
“You donkey,” Keme said with something like despair.
“Yay, Dash!”(Millie, at least, seemed to be on board.)
Graeme didn’t respond, though.He pulled off his glasses and wiped his face.He was shaking.He’d turned a deep red, his cheeks almost purple.And then he slid the glasses back on and took a shuddering breath.
“If someone would call the sheriff,” I said, “I think we can—”
Graeme brought the microphone up like a club, screamed, and lunged at me.
He was fast, and he caught me off guard, and only instinct and reflex saved me.I stumbled back, and the first blow missed by centimeters—the whiff of displaced air brushed my face.But my foot turned under me, and I fell.When I hit the floor, the shock of the impact left me stunned.Graeme loomed over me, but he seemed much farther off, and his screams were thin and distant.He brought the mic up again, and I told my body to move, but the connection between body and brain was still disrupted, and so I lay there and waited.
Graeme brought the mic down.
A gunshot rang out.
Graeme turned at the waist, as though someone had shoved him in the shoulder.And then he took a faltering step to regain his balance.He glanced down at the bloodstains flowing down the sleeve of his shirt, and then he looked up.His face was wide with confusion.
“But—” He licked his lips again.“You can’t.”
Bobby, gun still trained on Graeme, emerged from the crowd.He gave me a quick, assessing scan and then turned his attention back to Graeme.
And, in his perfectly Bobby way, he asked, “Why not?”
Chapter 27
The sheriff arrived, along with Deputy Dahlberg and—ugh—Deputy Dairek.They took Graeme away; a gunshot wound to the arm was serious, but he’d survive.He didn’t shout or make dramatic pronouncements of revenge.Mostly, he looked like he was in shock.(And like he was about to throw up.)
It was a long, tedious process: managing the crowd of terrified people, collecting names and statements, beginning the work that would take this from a dramatic showdown to a solid prosecution.It helped that several hundred people had witnessed Graeme’s quasi-confession and attack.Bobby and I waited in one of the empty multipurpose rooms.Deputy Dahlberg got me a bottle of water, and I drank half of it and then sat there, hands wrapped around it so that they wouldn’t shake.
Eventually, Sheriff Acosta came to take my statement.It was as straightforward as it could get, with me explaining—more cogently this time—what Graeme had done and why.
“He wanted us to find those reviews,” the sheriff said grimly.“He wanted us to know Whitney posted them.”
“He wanted somebody else to take the blame,” I said.“But you didn’t take the bait that I’d killed Vivienne—his first plan.And Thatcher decided to alibi Margaux.And then Graeme had to kill Steven to keep him from talking.He was running out of options.”
The sheriff shook her head.Fatigue lined her face; she’d had two murders and an officer-involved shooting in the last week, and if I were her, I’d be thinking about a long, well-deserved vacation in Bali (or, let’s be real, at home, but I’d pretend I was gone and I wouldn’t answer my phone).Finally, she said, “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Bobby drove me home.
We were quiet for most of the drive.It was only mid-afternoon, but it was overcast, with a hissing kind of rain that wasn’t strong enough to break the fog but kept up an uneven staccato against the windshield.Sitka spruce and lodgepole pines emerged out of the gloom one by one, zipping past us and then dissolving again.The air from the vents smelled faintly like turpentine.
“I’m sorry you had to shoot him,” I said.
“What?”
“I didn’t think—I mean, we were in a crowded room.I didn’t think he’d try anything.”
“Dash, I’m not upset I shot him.Iwantedto shoot him.”
“Uh.”
“I would have felt bad if I’d killed him, but he’ll be fine.”
“Oh.”The tires whispered against wet pavement.“I wanted you to shoot him too.”
Bobby looked over at me.And then, slowly, the goofy grin slipped out, and I surprised myself by laughing.
