“I did.” But even in a state of psychosis, would a serial killer say they would never hurt anyone with such conviction? “What did she tell the police?”
He hesitates, and when I gasp, he raises a hand. “Hold up. Ask around in any prison: everyone’s innocent.”
“Yes, but—”
“She’s confessing to things she can’t deny and denying things she can’t confess.”
Maybe so, but something doesn’t fit. Something about Vanessa, about all of this.
“So you admit we don’t have indisputable proof ofeverything,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “Like, okay, the killer tried to frame me,” I point out. “If Vanessa loves me so much, then why would she do that?”
Rafael leans with his back against the wall and chews on his lip. “All right,” he says slowly. “So, is the theory that there’s a stalker who’s obsessed with you and a serial killer who has it in for you?”
“No, of course not.”
He presses his lips together tightly, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “Then what’s the motive?”
“The podcast,” I say, almost automatically.
He clicks his tongue. “I told you, I’ve checked all the menconnected to Booked It. Followed them, looked into their past, their families, their whereabouts during the crimes. Nothing.”
I tap my fingers against my arm. “What about the women? They have husbands, or brothers, or—”
“I’ve checked them, too,” he interrupts. “None of these people were anywhere close to the crime scenes when the murders took place.”
I exhale, my mind blank. We have no investors, no obsessive following, no one in town who would gain from our podcast blowing up because of these murders. The only people who would profit from this are the ones working for the podcast.
“Hey,” Rafael says, his voice softer now. He takes my hand in his and smiles, a lopsided grin that somehow manages to be reassuring. “Sherlock Holmes says that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever’s left, however improbable…”
“Must be the truth,” I conclude, mirroring his expression despite the knot tightening in my chest. “You’ve read Arthur Conan Doyle?”
He inhales sharply, his head tilting left to right in a mock display of hesitation. “I, uh…” Breaking into a chuckle, he admits, “I’ve watched the movies.”
I laugh, the sound light and fleeting, but it’s enough to ease the tension, if only for a moment.
The doorbell rings, and, wondering if today willeverbe over, I turn to the door and pull it open. My breath is kicked out of me as I see Grandma and Grandpa, their matching expressions of disdain enough to make my blood run cold.
“Scarlett,” Grandma begins, her hair in its usual tight bun, her sharp eyes narrowed as she looks me over. “What on earth is this nonsense? Papers? An emergency custody hearing? Have you completely lost your mind?”
“Esther, please.” Grandpa holds a hand up, his suspenders stretching over a neatly pressed shirt. “After everything we’ve done for you, this is how you repay us? Dragging us into court like common criminals?”
I guess Steve must have served them papers. “Hi, Grandma. Hi, Grandpa. Nice to see you, too. Oh, and this is not about you. It’s about what’s best for Ethan.”
“What’s best for Ethan?” Grandma scoffs, stepping closer. “And you think that’s you? A mess of a girl who can’t even keep her life together, let alone raise a teenager?”
My fist presses around the door handle. “You have no idea what I’ve been through in the last five years, or the person I’ve become,” I say, voice sure. “And you don’t get to stand here and act like you’ve done a good job with Ethan when you’re stopping him from beinghimself.”
Grandpa’s face darkens. “This is a responsibility you’re not ready for, Scarlett. Tell your two-bit lawyer to backtrack on this, or you’ll end up regretting it.”
Rafael comes to my side, his hand tightening slightly against my back in a silent show of support. “Respectfully, Mr. and Mrs. Moore, you two could use a tolerance seminar,” he says. “We’ll see you in court.” Then he pushes the door closed, nearly smacking it in their smug faces.
When he notices my stare, half shock and half reverence, he huffs out a breath. “It’s not like we were getting an invitation for Christmas anyway.”
the found family[trope]
the ultimate potluck of personalities, where everyone’s got their own baggage, but they somehow make it work; at its core, this trope proves that sometimes the family you choose is even more important than the one you’re born into
I push open the glass door to Booked It, the heels of my boots clicking against the hardwood floor as I step inside. The familiar scent of coffee and printer ink greets me, but today it feels different. My stomach churns with nerves, the kind that make you wish you could turn around and call in sick.
