When Mrs. Prattle cups my shoulder, I flinch, looking back but not really seeing. My brain is a mosh pit of tangled thoughts, and fear is choking me, shutting down my airway.
“You need a glass of water. And to stop looking at those sad pictures.”
I watch Mrs. Prattle saunter over to the coffee machine, then take a bottle of water from the cabinet. Quickly, I grab a stack of pictures and shove them into my bag, not even sure they’re the right ones. “It’s—it’s okay, Mrs. Brattle. Thank you.” I set the remaining pictures back in the box, then grab my bag. “I need to go. I’ll, uh, see you later.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, but I’m out the door before I realize I’m not in a condition to drive, and I don’t know where to go.
Home is where Rafael is.
And Rafael might be a serial killer.
the sole caregiver[trope]
the overburdened, fiercely responsible hero(ine) who has been carrying the weight of the world on their own tired shoulders for far too long; prone to emotional walls and martyr tendencies, the sole caregiver has no time for romance—until someone determined enough breaks through their defenses and reminds them they’re allowed to want something for themself
The recording room at the Booked It office is colder than usual, the hum of the air conditioner filling the Wednesday silence. Perched on the chair, I sit drumming my fingers against the table.
I’ve been here for over an hour, staring blankly at the screen of my laptop, the pictures tucked away in my bag.
I keep pulling them out to study them, hoping I’ll see something new if I check just one more time. But Rafael’s still there, and I still can’t make sense of it.
I tap on the mic in front of me, the empty chair across the table impossible to ignore. Celeste said Theo would meet me to record the episode forPassion & Pagesat two, but that was twenty minutes ago. After Saturday night’s fight, what if he doesn’t show up?
The cursor blinks on my screen, and I tap my fingers on my paperback copy ofThe Darkened Stacks. It’s not the best book I’ve ever read—predictable in parts, rushed in others—but it’s perfect for one reason: a murder in the local library.
And Willowbrook only has one library.
If only Theo agrees to let me rerecord tomorrow’s episode ofMurders & Manuscriptslast minute instead of the episode forPassion & Pages, the killer will be exactly where I want them, and this time, I’ll be there, too. I’ll be ready.
In the meantime, I’ve convinced myself that Rafael isn’t behind this, that there must be another explanation. But doubt keeps gnawing at me. What if I’m wrong? What if itishim? The way he dodges questions about his job, how cagey he is about his past and his father—it’s hard to ignore. Quentin stabbed the killer’s arm, and Rafael’s arm was bandaged. And Theo is right, he resurfaced exactly when the killer struck for the first time, then vanished again right before the second murder.
Throat thickening, I try to banish the thought. No. It’s not him. Itcan’tbe him.
The door creaks open, and my heart skips. Theo is there, standing in the doorway, looking hesitant. His black-framed glasses catch the light before he steps inside, closing the door softly behind him.
“Hey,” I say, wiping my arm over the table to clean up the crumbs left by my Pop-Tart.
He walks over and slides into the seat. His broad shouldershunch slightly as he leans forward, trying to make himself smaller in the too-narrow chair. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic from New Haven was a bitch.”
“No worries.” Neither of us speaks, and I can’t quite bring myself to meet his eyes again. “Fair warning,” I say, tapping my laptop. “It might take me a while to get it right.”
“That’s okay. It’s your first episode.”
“Yeah. I know.”
We sit in the silence that follows, the hum of the air conditioner suddenly louder than ever. He shifts in his seat, dropping his worn canvas bag onto the floor with a dull thud. A hotel key card slips out and skitters across the linoleum, coming to rest against the leg of the table. He snatches it up quickly, tucking it back inside without a word, but the tips of his ears go red.
Recognizing the orange logo, I ask, “Are you staying at the Wildflower Inn?”
“Hmm? N-no.”
“Oh, I thought that was—”
“Give me just a second to set up and we can start.”
“Okay.” I can’t tell if he’s upset or hiding something. Why would he have a room at Willowbrook’s only hotel? Is he having issues with his apartment?
My phone buzzes on the table.
