WILLOWBROOK ROCKED BY SECOND CHILLING MURDER IN A WEEK
Mallory Young, 32, was found dead seated at a dinner table in a grotesque tableau. Elements from the crime scene suggest the woman might have had a stalker, whose identity remains unclear.
“This is bullshit,” I murmur, scrolling through the article from theWillowbrook Whistleon my phone. Mallory Young didn’t have a stalker. This crime wasn’t about her at all. My podcast is at the center, and Mallory just happened to be the target.
“Earth calling Scarlett!”
I flinch, turning to Paige, who sits at the table with our order. “Is everything okay? You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I haven’t,” I say distractedly as Vanessa joins us. The two of them insisted I meet them here at The Oak for lunch, but I honestly have no time for this. A second murder that follows the script of my episodes wipes any doubt away. Someone’s listening to my podcast and using it to commit their crimes. Though since we’re here… “What did Quentin say the killer looked like?”
Paige drops her head back, and Vanessa hesitates as she pulls her blond braid over one shoulder.
“Same old. Big guy, dark jacket, green cap.”
“What about Celeste? Did the chief say anything about their meeting?”
Vanessa’s brow scrunches. “What meeting?”
“She went to the station yesterday.”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. But to be fair, we were pretty busy. You know, because of the victim whose hand was severed with amachete.”
There’s tightness around her eyes and the faint lines of exhaustion on her forehead. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to deal with something so gruesome, to see the worst humanity has to offer and still keep going.
Loud laughter bursts from the bar, drawing all our eyes. A cluster of customers is gathered around Quentin, who is gesturing wildly with his hands from behind the counter as his voice carries over the clinking of glasses.
“And I said, ‘Not today, buddy!’?” he declares, miming a stab with his invisible weapon. The group erupts into another round of laughter and cheers.
Paige snorts. “Will he ever tire of telling that story?”
“Nope. And each time, he adds a little more flair,” Vanessa says. “What’s he up to now? Three stabs and a headlock?”
“Four stabs and a roundhouse kick,” I correct without missing a beat.
“Okay, no more murder talk, please?” Paige asks, hands joined in mock prayer.
“Fine, fine.”
“Great! Tell me about Rafael. I can’t believe you didn’t text me thesecondhe showed up.”
I take a sip of water. “We spent every moment together until I left this morning.”
She swats me away, then stops, eyes narrowing. “You mean last night?”
After a moment of hesitation, I say, “Yes, but—”
Paige screeches loudly enough to give me—and probably every single patron in here—a jump scare. “Oh myGod, tell me you fucked his brains out.”
“Jesus, Paige—”
“How was it? I mean, I know his dick is massive, but—”
“Paige!”
“Just tell me!”
I throw a sheepish glance around me. Quentin isn’t around anymore, thankfully, but I don’t want one of the waiters to tell him about this. I don’t care what Rafael says, I still think it’s weird. “We didn’t have sex. Wait—what do you mean you know his… How do you know that?”
