“No—seriously. I just needed to run away from Theo, and I didn’t feel like being at home.”
“Run away from Theo?”
I guess he didn’t tell her. “Saturday night, he said…” I scoff. The thought, although baseless and absurd, makes me uncomfortable. “He said Rafael might be the murderer.”
With a half-hearted chuckle, she drops onto the chair next to me. “Wait, what?”
“I know, it’s crazy.”
Eyes drifting over the desk, she gasps. “You don’t believe him, right?”
“Ijustsaid it’s crazy.”
“Right. Itis.” She points at the pictures. “So what are you doing, exactly?”
I don’t know. Maybe I want to discover who the killer is so I can prove Theo wrong. Maybe my trust issues are deep enough that even his baseless accusations are making me pause. Maybe it’s because I want to trust Rafael, but heiskeeping a few secrets.
“Okay, Scarlett,” Paige says, rolling her chair closer. She takes both my hands in hers, squeezing hard enough to make my fingers tingle, and her green eyes lock on mine, deadly serious. “Do you wantmeto become a serial killer? Because I will kill you, then Theo.”
“Technically, that’s not ‘serial’—”
“Jesus, Scarlett. Theo has always been protective of you. You know that.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“So don’t let what he’s saying affect you. Promise?” When I nod, she pats my hand and stands up, then tucks the chair back against the desk. “Vanessa is waiting for me for brunch.” Throwing a disdainful look at the pictures, she sighs. “Please find something a little cheerier to obsess over?”
I mumble “Bye” when she waves, watching her walk out of theWhistle. It’s not like I believed Theo before, but knowing she also thinks he’s being unreasonable makes me feel better.
I go back to the pictures, and with one stack out of the way, I sink farther into the chair and look up at the ceiling. Catherine and Mallory both lived in houses—there are few apartment complexes in Willowbrook anyway. They were both women, and they both… had white mailboxes, I guess. Everything else about them is different.
According to social media, their ages, occupations, friends—nothing was similar about them. They dressed differently, they lived in different areas, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find out they never even exchanged more than a couple of words.
“What am I even doing?” I ask as I grab a stack of photos. The picture on top was taken at Catherine’s funeral, and I can spot her family next to the casket, their expressions filled with the type of sorrow that only comes from unexpected grief.
I set the stack of photos down, sending a bunch of them sliding over the desk. This is pointless.
“Find anything interesting?”
I turn to Mrs. Prattle entering the office, then shake my head as she walks to the computer. She says something about the times we live in, and I figure it’s my cue to leave. I probably won’t find anything here.
I group all the pictures together, and one slips under the box. Before I can put it back on the stack, I notice that the angle caught someone withdrawn from the crowd, standing next to a tree that shadows their face.
But I know who that is.
Those wide shoulders, the curls over his forehead, the tattoos peeking out of the collar of his shirt. It’s Rafael.
My heart gallops in my chest until I find the stack of photos from Mallory’s funeral. I flip through them, lungs burning with every breath, until I find a shot of the mourners… and Rafael is in the background.
He was there. At both funerals. He’s only been back in town less than two weeks—how could he possibly have known both victims well enough to go to their funerals? And why wouldn’t he have said anything?
Unless… unless heistheir killer.
Unless he’s interested not in me but in my podcast.
Unless I’m living not in a romance but in a very twisted thriller.
“Scarlett, dear. Is everything okay?”
