I push open the door to the Booked It office, my heart slamming against my ribs.
The space looks unfamiliar as I step inside. I’ve been here at night plenty, when all the lights are off, but it looks larger tonight. And isolated. If something happened here, nobody would hear it, would they? Not at this time of night.
It’s the first time I’ve noticed it.
I take out my phone, but there are no missed calls. I tried reaching Rafael on my way here, but he hasn’t picked up or gotten back tome. Maybe he didn’t really mean it when he said he was a phone call away. Maybe he’s busy getting settled wherever he is now. Whatever the truth is, I’m alone.
I turn the corner of the corridor, then quickly duck behind a desk. The light in Celeste’s office is still on.
Slowly, I creep toward the door, my footsteps barely making a sound on the carpet. I peer through the partially open door, and there she is. Celeste, standing at her desk, fists pressed into the wood, lips moving in frantic whispers.
“I defended you,” I say as she turns to me and brings a hand to her chest.
“Oh, geez, Scarlett. You scared me.”
“I trusted you, Celeste. It made the most sense that it’d be you—you were the one with the most to gain from this. But I told Rafael there was no way you’d do it, that you’d kill people, all of it over a podcast.”
She swallows, shoulders hunching. “What… what are you talking about?”
“I know about youraffair.With Quentin.”
“Oh.” She clears her throat. “Are you upset? Jealous? Because, Scarlett, it’s just a fling. In fact, I plan to end it. And you know I would have never done it if I’d known it’d hurt you.”
She can’t be serious, can she?
“Sherlock’s cam caught Quentin coming out of Mrs. Brattle’s house, dressed like the killer, knocking over the gnome. And I wondered why he lied about Rafael attacking him, but I get it now. He never thought he’d met the killer—he used that excuse in case Rafael accusedhimof being the killer. Why would anyone believe Rafael over our town’s beloved Quentin?”
Celeste steps closer, but as she sees me reaching into my bag, she stops. “Wait, you think Quentin did this?”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure he did.”
“But Vanessa was arrested.Shewas the murderer.”
“Vanessa said she would never hurt anyone.”
“And you believe her? She wasstalkingyou.”
Yes, but she didn’t lie. She admitted she was stalking me. “Vanessa is sick, but she’s not evil. She’s not a killer—youare.”
She shifts on her heels. “Scarlett, it’sme. I’m your family. Your parents were my best friends.”
“I know,” I say, pain laced in my voice. “That’s probably why it took me so long to see it. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? You pretended not to want any attention drawn to the podcast, then posted that Reddit from my laptop when I left it at work.”
She laughs, though it’s humorless, and nervously brings a hand to the side of her head.
“Vanessa knew nothing about your visit to the chief of police, because you never went there. Did you?” My lips twist. “But you had an alibi for each murder. Rafael told me he tracked your car, Steve’s, and nothing.”
“Because it wasn’t me,” she insists, her voice rising.
“No. It wasn’tyouwho slit Catherine’s throat or who attacked Mallory with a machete.”
She crosses her arms. “Okay, you know what? I think you’re tired and you need to sleep.” She scoffs. “You’re not making any sense. Quentin, me—who’s the killer, Scarlett?”
“Both of you.”
Her brows knit together, and if anything, I’ll give her credit forher acting skills. She really fooled both me and Rafael for so long. “What does that even mean?”
“It means that you’re the brains and he’s the muscle. You’ve taken the most gullible guy in town and turned him into your own murder machine.”
