“It’snotTheo.”
He exhales sharply. “Would you have reacted differently if I told you that Celeste didn’t have an alibi?”
“It’s not Celeste, either!”
“Scarlett—”
“It’s not!” I snap. “She’s in full denial, Rafael. She went to the police, and trust me, she waspissedwhen people connected the murders to Booked It.”
He looks away, his hand raking through his hair. “I know it’s not Celeste. She was visiting her kid at UConn in Groton during two of the murders. But your colleagues aren’t the only people who have access to the episode before it airs. Whoever this killer is, it must be someone close to you. Too close for you to be objective.”
I stare at him, searching his face for answers, my thoughts buzzing as one name after another flits through my mind. Until…
“Paige.” My voice is barely audible. “She’s the first person I send the scripts to every week.”
His expression tightens. “Your brother has had access to your laptop, too.”
“Mybrother?” I squeak, horrified. Remembering the curious crowd watching from behind the tape, I blush and lower my voice. “You can’t seriously think Ethan is involved.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t. But I can’t rule it out, either. Do you understand? You actuallycan’thelp with this investigation, because I can’t ask you to suspect your best friend—or your family.”
I exhale, ready to protest some more.
“Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Did that come out as a question? Because it wasn’t.”
We fall into a comfortable pace past the small crowd, an awkward silence lingering between us. I just know he’s about to bring up the situation between us, and frankly, I’m not in the mood for it. “Ethan… he’s staying at my place.”
“He is?”
“Yeah. We talked, and I saw a lawyer. He thinks we might have grounds for an emergency hearing. To fight for custody.”
He bumps his shoulder against mine. “What?That’s amazing.”
I guess Rafael was right. He’d said I should tell Ethan the truth about our grandparents. “I just hope I know what I’m doing.”
“You don’t.” When I whine, he laughs. “You don’t! But that’s okay. You’ll figure it out together. All Ethan wants is a chance to do that.”
I guess he’s right. I guess that’s all I want, too.
He opens the small gate that leads into my front yard, and I’m about to thank him when I notice a box on my porch. Weird. The postman knows not to leave stuff unattended outside, with the way Sherlock likes to destroy cardboard.
“Did you buy something?” Rafael is in front of me before I can take a step.
“No.” I follow, my heartbeat spiking at the tension radiating from him. What does he think is in there? “Rafael?” I call, catching up to him just as he crouches by the box. His hand, poised to lift the first flap, hesitates when he turns to me.
“Scarlett, step back.”
He thinks there’s something bad in there. Something dangerous or traumatizing, like a severed hand or some other type of creepy message.
Before Rafael can stop me, I step up and pull the first flap open.
The smell hits me first—cloying and metallic. It’s dark inside, but the red, sticky substance is unmistakable. And the black fur.
“Don’t.” Rafael’s hand wraps around my arm, yanking me back. His body is solid behind me like an unyielding wall, and the cold leather of his jacket presses against the bare skin of my arms, sending an electric jolt through me. My breath hitches, ragged and shallow, catching on the rising tide of panic that claws at my throat.
