“Rooo.”
“Okay, so I guess I’m alittledisappointed,” I snap. And worried, mostly worried. I considered going to the funeral, just in case he showed up, but talked myself out of it when I remembered the way he seemed to absolutelynotwant me there. I knocked on his door twice, but nothing, and I haven’t exactly been staring out the window, but I haven’t seen him come or go at all.
I swipe the lipstick across my lips, the bold red instantly brightening my face, and when I see something moving outside, my eyes dart to the window, but it’s just a bird.
Okay, so I guess Ihavebeen staring out the window.
Pathetic.
“Rooo.”
Once again, I glare at Sherlock through the mirror. He probably just wants a cookie, but it feels a lot like he’s judging me. “You could help, you know,” I say, standing. “When I found out aboutyour affair, I invited the Walkers over so you could spend time with Georgina.”
My phone beeps, and I grab it from the bed. Theo’s stuck in traffic out of town. I text back that we can record next week’s episodes after lunch, then walk downstairs. Sherlock follows, both of us settling on the couch.
I really should work on my first episode ofPassion & Pages, but the latest book I picked up smacked me in the face—literally, because I fell asleep trying to read it.
Maybe Celeste is right, and this is just a mistake. What the hell do I know about romance? Two days ago, a man held my hand for the first time in five years, and I still haven’t recovered from it.
“Hey.” I gently nudge Sherlock with my foot. “Wanna listen to the podcast? The episode aired last night.”
He opens one eye.
I tap on the app and press play.
Welcome toMurders & Manuscripts,the podcast where we delve into the darkest corners of crime fiction. I’m your host, Scarlett Moore, and today we’re unraveling the chilling tale ofThe Widow’s Veilby Anders Peterson, a story that blurs the line between love and madness.
Our victim is Elizabeth, a wealthy widow known for her philanthropy and grace, who is discovered in her grand, decaying manor. She’s dressed in her wedding gown and seated at a long-forgotten dinner table set for two. The scene is haunting: Elizabeth’s veil is torn, her face pale, and her hand severed. Can you guess the killer’s weapon of choice?
I glance at Sherlock, whose focus is on licking his puffy black tail. “Spoiler alert: it’s amachete.”
Dozens of wilted roses and a collection of love letters surround her, each more desperate and delusional than the last. Now the Blackmoor police will have to find out who would stop at nothing to claim Elizabeth forever.
Sherlock’s eyes are almost closed, and with a cluck of my tongue, I focus on my voice coming out of the speakerphone, but the noise of a car speeding, then someone shouting, has me pressing the pause button. I approach my door, spotting Mrs. Prattle outside, grumbling about something.
“Mrs. Brattle?” I call as I open the door. Her gaze meets mine from the sidewalk. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s Lauren’s damned kid!” she grouses. “One of these days, he’ll run one of us over, you’ll see.”
I have no idea who Lauren’s kid is, but Mrs. Prattle looks winded, so I walk closer, pointing back at my house. “Would you like to come in for a glass of water?”
“Oh, no, dear.” She squints. “I think your cat just walked out the door.”
I turn just in time to see Sherlock’s tail as he hops off the side of the porch. “He always finds his way back home.”
She gives me an unconvinced look.
I should go—I normally avoid the town’s gossip queen like the plague, but… well, she still looks agitated. And Iguessshe might know something about Rafael that I don’t.
Like where he is.
“So, um, anything new in town?”
Her eyes light up at the question. “It’s been a scandalous week, Scarlett. Scandalous, I tell you!” She leans in conspiratorially. “You know the Walkers?”
I nod, wondering how I can redirect the conversation to Rafael. “Yep. Sherlock has a crush on their labradoodle.”
“Well, rumor has it that Mr. Walker isn’t actually the twins’ father.”
