“I don’t know for sure,” he says. “But that’s my guess, yes.”
My heart races as I go through the papers again. If someone is using my podcast to plan these murders and then sending us money afterward, what does that mean? Some sort of twisted reward system? A thank-you for the inspiration?
God, this is so fucked-up.
“Did you check that last police report?”
I rush to the last page and quickly read. “Wait… the killer came back to the scene?”
“Just today. And theymusthave known the police would still be there.” He shakes his head. “I’ve no idea why they’d do that. They smacked Wes in the back of the head and snuck in—he’s fine, don’t worry. The police don’t think they took anything either. When theyleft, they were so rattled, they knocked down one of the garden gnomes—it’s just… weird.”
I pluck the crime scene photos from the pile and, trying to ignore Ron’s lifeless body, focus on everything else captured by the camera. It all seems to belong—the faded floral armchair draped with a knitted afghan, the cracked teacup balanced on a stack of gardening magazines, an old-fashioned radio—except… “Is that a hotel key?”
“Hmm?”
“Right there,” I say, pointing as I hold the picture closer.
He leans forward. “It looks like a credit card.”
“No, look, see the orange flower? That’s the Wildflower Inn logo.”
He scratches his jaw mindlessly. “Why would Mrs. Brattle have a room in a local hotel?”
“She wouldn’t. And I bet if you ask the police to find this, they won’t.”
Rafael takes out his phone and begins tapping. Pulling the picture back, I let my next thought slowly trickle in. Theo. Theo had a card key to the Wildflower Inn with him only a couple of days ago. And he wassocagey about it too.
No. Theo, one of my best friends, isnotthe killer. He’s just not.
I go through more papers, finding my name everywhere. Information about my family, my love life, friends.
“Psycho,” I whisper, just loudly enough for him to hear.
He nudges me with his elbow. “Did you say something?”
I playfully glare at him. “I want my vibrator back,psycho.”
With a snort, he resumes eating.
the letter[trope]
a heartfelt, ink-stained declaration of love that arrives just in time for maximum emotional impact; always read with trembling hands, a lump in the throat, and a montage-worthy imaginary soundtrack in the background
I dig my heels into the ground, resisting Paige’s insistent nudges. “Seriously, I don’t want to do this.”
The glow of The Oak’s neon sign flickers against the pavement, throwing erratic shadows on the cracked concrete as the faint buzz of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter leak out from the pub. It seems pretty full for a Sunday night.
Her eyes widen like those of a crazy person’s. “I think I have enough dirt on you to make youcrawlinto that pub, so don’t make me.” She exhales, crossing her arms over her orange dress. “You and Rafael need to get over this already. And it’s your turn to show him you care.”
I turn to Vanessa for help. She leans casually against the brick wall of The Oak, one foot propped up as if she has all the time in the world. Her police radio crackles faintly at her hip, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Come on, Paige. If she’s not ready—” Vanessa starts, but Paige cuts her off with a sharp wave of her hand.
“Shelikeshim, Vanessa.”
“But he lied to me!” I blurt, though it doesn’t sound convincing at all. “I can’t just pretend that didn’t happen, right?Right?”
Paige circles around to stand in front of me. She grabs both my arms, her grip stronger than it needs to be. “That’s not the real problem.”
