“Not your first corpse, I take it?”
He solemnly shakes his head. “I’ve seen plenty.”
“Plenty,” I repeat, struggling to imagine a reality where this is a regular Friday.
I’ve lived my life fascinated by the morbid. Murders, serial killers, mysteries. It sure as hell feels different when it’s not within the pages of a book.
“Why do you do it? This job?”
He exhales, adjusting his jeans over his hips. “I wanted to be a cop, actually.”
“Really? A cop?”
“Yeah. Like your dad.”
I say nothing, brows arching.
“The academy probably wouldn’t have been good for me, though. I work best alone.”
“Rafael,” I say, accepting the water bottle Wes hands me, then waiting for him to walk away. “You need to work this case withme. I want to help you catch the Lit Killer.”
His brow furrows, the soft lines of concern hardening into something sharper. “The what now?”
“The Lit Killer.”
He presses his lips tight as if to contain a chuckle.
“What? Lit, like literature. I just figured… Stop laughing! It makes sense!”
I continue before he has a chance to say no. “This is my town. My podcast. And they went for Mrs. Pr—Brattle.” My words tumble out in a rush. “That woman is… She’sMrs. Prattle! She bakes cookies for the neighborhood kids and lends out books from her personal collection like she’s running her own damn library. And Rob is such a great guy. He didn’t deserve—”
“I know,” he says with a grimace. “But you’re too close, Scarlett. You can’t be objective.”
“What if I have information that will reduce the pool of suspects to only a handful?”
His lips flatten into a thin line, his resolve cracking. “Fine,” he relents. “You can help—but only if you promise not to put yourself in danger.” He points a finger at me, his tone deadly serious. “Promise.”
“I promise.”
He gestures for me to speak, so I lean closer. “Last night’s episode—the library—was a setup for the murderer.” He nods, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Which I only came up with on Wednesday. But the original episode wasthisone.” I point back at the house, shivering as the memory of the bloodstained kitchen flashes in my mind. “It never aired.”
His expression darkens, the realization sinking in. “Wait. That means the killer…”
“They’ve either read my scripts or listened to the podcastbeforeit’s aired.” My eyes dart toward the familiar faces of neighbors lingering behind the police tape. A chill runs down my spine as I scan the crowd, suspicion gnawing at me. “It must be someone from Booked It.”
One of my colleagues.
“I looked into everyone at Booked It,” Rafael says, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “Every single person has an alibi—except…”
Don’t say it.
“Theo.”
“It’s not Theo!” I blurt out.
His lips twist, but I insist. “It’s not him. He edited the library episode. He knew it changed.”
“And if he’s the killer, he knew it was a trap.”
