“No way. How did you hear about this?”
“Oh, I have my ways.” She scans the rows of pristine houses and flower beds basking under the bright suburban sun as if they’ll spill more tea about the town’s latest drama. “And the Morgans—apparently, the man of the house officially moved out.”
“Steve Morgan?” I ask, lips drifting open. “As in Celeste’s husband?”
“Yes, dear. Didn’t you hear? The two of them have been having screaming matches for months. The Barneses next door have called the police a couple of times.”
I lean against the picket fence around my yard. I definitely consider Celeste a friend, but we don’t exactly sit down to talk about our issues. Still… her husband moved out? I wish she’d said something. “Anything else?” I swear I need to take acting classes, because it feels as if it would be obvious from a mile away that I’m fishing for intel. “Like something about yesterday, or, uh—”
“Ooh.You want to know about John Gray’s boy, don’t you? About the funeral?”
Goddamn it. Busted within ten seconds.
“Oh, right. That was yesterday,” I say casually.
“Rafael was a no-show.” Her eyes sparkle. “Lupe, from down the road, swears she saw him take off early in the morning, and nobody’s seen him since.”
I frown, my mind racing. Take off? Like permanently? “Is she sure it was him?”
“With luggage and everything.” Mrs. Prattle grips my shoulder. “Careful, Scarlett. You’re a good kid. You don’t want to be mixed up with men with bad intentions, and that man…” She taps her nose. “I can smell trouble from a mile away. Always could.”
Shit, shit, shit.
I know there’s no point in telling her to keep this to herself; gossip is fair game when Mrs. Prattle is involved. But I can’t afford her telling the whole town about us. “It’s not like that, Mrs. Brattle.”
“Are you—what do you kids call it? Friends with benefits?”
I furiously shake my head. “Mrs. Brattle!”
“Oh, dear. I went through my fair share of men in my day.” She pats my shoulder. “Had to stop eventually.” With a knowing look, she continues, “Always fell in love with the bad ones.”
“Well, nobody’s falling in love. I promise.”
“Protect this, right here,” she says, tapping her finger on my chest before walking away. “See you later, Scarlett!”
“Bye, Mrs. Brattle,” I murmur, the touch of her finger on my heart still echoing.
Celeste
How’s that episode coming along? It’s Friday! Also, you left your laptop at the office!
I sigh as I come out of the car. I’m so utterly fucked. I’ve tried to rewrite this stupid episode four times, but I hated every version, and Paige, who’s always the first person I send the scripts to, lied through her teeth when she gave me her positive feedback.
I grab my bag, slam the car door shut, and head for the entrance, throwing a look at Rafael’s place. Celeste needs the episode, and unless inspiration strikes, I’ll lose this opportunity. My boots click against the pavement, the sound almost drowned out by the persistent hum of my thoughts.
Then the blare of sirens snaps me out of my spiral, loud enough to rattle my nerves and bounce off the nearby houses. It starts with one, maybe two, and quickly builds into a chaotic symphony. I freeze on the sidewalk, bag slipping from my shoulder as I glance down the street. It sounds like it’s not too far away. My pulse quickens, but curiosity gets the better of me.
I pivot and head toward the commotion, my heart pounding harder with each step.
The parallel street is crowded with neighbors and people clustered on the sidewalk, murmuring. I spot Vanessa near the caution tape, standing straight as an arrow, her blond hair pulled into the usual braid. I wave her over.
“Scarlett,” she says, hands raised. “I don’t have a lot of details yet.”
“Can’t blame me for trying, right?”
“Not you, no.” She glances around before stepping closer, her tall frame blocking some of the gawkers behind her. “Look, it’s another weird one. The victim is Mallory Young, and it happened last night. We’re still piecing together the details, but…” She hesitates. “She was found seated at a table. And… she was dressed in a wedding gown.”
A chill runs down my spine, and I feel my stomach twist. “A wedding gown?” The scene fromThe Widow’s Veilfloods my mind—the bride seated at the table, the haunting setup.
