“And relieved,” I say. Rafael is right—Quentin can’t be behind these murders. “Thank you for hosting us tonight.”
He waves me off, then holds his hand out. “I found this the other day, and… I don’t know.” I look down, tentatively taking the framed picture. “I figured you might like to have it. Uncle John kept it in his office in the back.”
I glance at the picture, my heart skipping a beat. It’s my mom, my dad, Celeste, and Rafael’s father, all smiling at The Oak, wearing matching gray T-shirts with what I can now tell is a tree printed on the front. I recognize them instantly, although the print isn’t faded like it is now. “The broccoli shirt.”
“Excuse me?”
I point at the picture. “My parents, they used to wear those shirts and do a silly little dance to get my brother to eat his vegetables. They called them the broccoli shirts.”
“Oh.” Quentin laughs, pointing at the picture. “Well, it’s technically an oak tree, not broccoli. Apparently, there was a big snowstorm on opening day, so some of Uncle John’s staff didn’t show. Your parents and Celeste offered to help. He must’ve given them the shirts as a thank-you.”
My stomach knots the moment his words register. The witness who saw the killer come out of Catherine’s apartment described a gray shirt with a tree print on the front. Could they have meantthisshirt?
“He never got around to making more for the employees.” He wipes the table next to us. “Which, if you ask me, is a blessing, ’cause I can wear whatever I want.”
I blink, nodding through his story. There are four shirts in this picture. Two of them are at my place; one I wore at Rafael’s house. There’s only one missing.
Celeste’s.
I look up at Quentin, the blood freezing in my veins.
Between you and me, I’d rather stay as far away as possible from my wife’s boy toy.
I thought Steve was looking at Theo, but Quentin was servinghim a drink, wasn’t he? Quentin.Quentinis Celeste’s boy toy. That must be why he was so mysterious about seeing someone—because that someone istechnicallystill married.
You wanna bet the two of them secretly meet at the Wildflower Inn?
“Scarlett, are you okay?”
“I, uh, yes. Yes, I’m sorry. I just…” I turn, making sure I still have eyes on Ethan as I hand Quentin back the picture. “I think I need a good night of sleep. The tension this week has been…”
“Oh, yeah. I get it.”
I step back, heart thrumming. “See you, Quentin.”
His voice calls for me again before I can take a step. I turn around, cautiously waiting for what he’ll say next. “You didn’t take the picture.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” I grip the frame. “Thank you.”
“You got it.” I can feel his eyes on me as I turn and walk away, but I ignore him, walking to Paige and Theo. Celeste’s not with them anymore, and my pulse thrums in my ears as I reach Paige near the buffet table, then grab her arm. “Hey. I need you to take Ethan home.”
She frowns, setting down her drink. “Right now? This party is for you.”
“Right now.” I swallow, tightening my hold on her arm. “Please.”
She studies my face, and she must see something desperate in it, because she says, “Okay, yes. Of course.”
Theo joins us, his brows knitting together. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I need to leave. Please go with Paige. Take Ethan and Jace, and stay at my place.”
“Scarlett, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?” Paige says, but I’m already walking toward the exit, my heart pounding as I step into the cool night air.
What is happening is that I think I just figured out Quentin’s motive.
the book boyfriend[trope]
a fictional character so devastatingly perfect he makes real-life partners look like they forgot to take the chicken out of the freezer; known for his smoldering good looks, razor-sharp wit, and ability to spout heartfelt monologues that would make Shakespeare weep. warning: may causerealisticexpectations and excessive rereading of favorite scenes
