I pause by my desk, my fingers brushing the edge of my computer monitor. Feeling observed, I look up and meet Theo’s gaze. The air between us feels heavy, loaded with words left unsaid and accusations. My chest tightens at the memory of Saturday night.
I’m not ready to face him. Not now, not after he accused Rafael of being aserial killer. Without a word, I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder.
“You heading out?” he asks as I step past him.
I avoid his gaze. “Yeah, just need some air.”
He hesitates, and I think he might say something. Apologize, maybe. But nothing comes. Instead, I sense his eyes on me as I walk toward the door.
“Scarlett!” Mrs. Prattle cheers from the deserted office of theWillowbrook Whistle. I close the door behind me as she stands and quickly walks closer. “How are you, dear? I hear you had quite a lot of fun Saturday night, didn’t you?”
I hesitate. “Uh, I—yes.” I swear, I’ll never get used to this part of living in a small town. “Did someone see me dance the Macarena?”
“They sure did, honey,” she says as she finally reaches my side. With a snap of her fingers, she turns to the coffee machine. “Oh, let me get you a coffee.”
“No, I’m fine, I—” She’s already filling a cup, so I let it go. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Please! They only want me here to watch the place, and Tuesday’s a slow day.” She holds the cup out for me. “Nowadays, the kids do all their work on theircomputers.”
I accept the cup. Only hearing the way she says “computers” like they’re offensive makes me feel better.
“What brings you here?” she asks, gesturing at the cluttered office.
“Uh, I actually… I was wondering if you had any material about Catherine Blake and Mallory Young that hasn’t been published.”
With a curious tilt of her head, she walks to the closest desk. “What a terrible ordeal, isn’t it? The police say it’s someone local, but what do they know? Chief Donovan can’t even play a hand of poker, and that young cop they hired, Trevor? He smokesgrass.” She moves a pile of folders and papers. “It’s gotta be someone from out of town, right? Who would kill a woman as sweet as Mallory?”
She looks like she expects me to weigh in, so I nod. I wish I could tell her the police are wrong, but they have a point. It makes sense that the killer would choose to hunt on familiar ground, which would make them a local.
“I just hope the police know what they’re doing,” she says as she grabs a large box, then sets it on the desk. “She was going to be married in March, you know.”
“Mallory?”
“Had just sent the invitations out.” When she cups her mouth with a shaky hand, I reach into my bag for tissues. With a sniffle, she refuses them. “Oh, don’t worry about me, darling. You’ll find some pictures here—my nephew took them.”
“Thank you.”
“Is this something for your… radio show?”
“Uh, no.” I grab the first stack of pictures, looking through shots outside Catherine’s house. “I’m just… curious, I guess.”
Her brows knit together, but she quickly wipes the dubious expression off her face. “Always said you take after your father. Well, I’ll be outside—wouldn’t want to miss the after-Pilates gossip.”
I smile in a silent thank-you before she walks away, then sit on the closest chair and begin going through the pictures. I’m not sure what I expect to find. It’s not like the killer posed for a picture in front of the police. But maybe I’ll notice some similarities. Something that connects the two victims. Something that’ll tell me how the killer chose them.
Honestly, I just want to findsomething.
As I flip through the pictures, a flash of purple catches my eye through the window. It’s Paige, in her favorite oversize hoodie, talking to Mrs. Prattle and waving cigarette smoke away. Her auburn curlsare pulled into a haphazard high ponytail, a few damp tendrils stuck to her temple from what must have been an aggressive Pilates session.
Mrs. Prattle must have told her I’m in here, because Paige turns her head and meets my gaze with a puzzled expression.
Just great.
She pushes the door open and leans in. “Tell me you’re not obsessing over local murders, I beg of you.”
I set the photos down. “It’s not my fault this time.”
“Isn’t it?” She walks in, closing the door behind her with a pointed hip-bump, and struts over. Seeing the stack of pictures of Catherine’s funeral, she sighs. “Oh, boy.”
