His brows hike both at once. “Returning to the scene of the crime?”
“Me or her?”
He gives a slow blink. “You’re funny.” But he’s not laughing.
“You should come.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
We finish dinner with easier conversation—his stories about small-town detective work, my adventures in theme park management, the kind of getting-to-know-you talk that feels both new and comfortably familiar.
As we leave the restaurant, Fish and Chip trailing behind us through the Halloween-transformed pathways where everything glows with orange and purple light, the autumn air carries the scent of woodsmoke and possibility.
Dexter picks up my hand, pulling me closer as we walk through the magical landscape my daughters and Emma created. The glow from jack-o’-lanterns catches in his dark hair, and the distant sound of carousel music makes everything feel dreamlike.
They’re holding hands,Fish observes with the tone of a nature documentary narrator.This appears to be a positive development.
Should we give them privacy?Chip asks hopefully.Because there’s definitely leftover funnel cake calling my name.
Just as Dexter stops walking and turns toward me—his intentions clear in the moonlight, his lips edging their way toward mine—a familiar voice cuts through our romantic moment like a chainsaw through wedding cake.
“Dexter! There you are!” Delora’s voice carriesacross the hollow with the authority of someone who’s never been told no. “I’d like for you to walk me to my car. I don’t feel safe around these parts at night.”
Because apparently, even potential murderers have impeccable timing when it comes to ruining perfectly good almost-kisses.
CHAPTER 20
You know your life has taken a turn for the surreal when you’re standing in a fake cemetery wearing a vampire costume while your ex-husband flirts with a morning show host, and your cats pose for national television in tiny costumes. We’re all one big happy family with questionable fangs and fashion choices.
The scent of cinnamon donuts mingles with gingerbread funnel cakes and the crisp bite of October air that’s arrived fashionably early—try several weeks—while spooky music drifts from hidden speakers with the kind of theatrical timing that makes everything feel slightly unhinged.
Purple and green twinkle lights snake through every available surface like Christmas decorations that took a wrong turn at Halloween, and the sound of chattering crowds mingles with the distant cackle of mechanical witches who are probably older than every last visitor here, and most likely haunted.
It’s the last night of the Sweet Season Spooky Symposium, and the grand finale event is upon us. And apparently, the entire state of Maine decided to show up wearing costumes that range from adorable to requires therapy in an effort to help uscelebrate. My ex would fall into that category regardless of the time of year.
And what is Clyde doing here, anyway? My only guess is he’s here to cheer the girls on for their event coordination efforts. That or rub greedy Greta, his yoga instructor, in my face. I can’t help but notice her slim frame henpecking her way through the dessert table. Now there’s irony for you.
Dexter is running late, but he’s already texted twice just to see if I’m still breathing. I’m sensing he’s afraid his mother will strike again.
The event is being held right here in front of the haunted house, and the grounds are thick with people in costumes as the music blares and they hop up and down to the funky beat.
“I can’t believe it’s still just September,” Ree announces, adjusting her vampire cape while clutching a caramel apple that’s bigger than her head. “Theme parks really don’t care about the actual calendar, do they?”
“Why would they?” Georgie counters, her zombie bride costume complete with a veil that keeps getting caught in the autumn breeze. “When you can convince people to buy Halloween merchandise in August and Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving, actual dates become purely optional.”
“It’s marketing genius,” I agree, smoothing down the vampire getup that McKenna, Riley, and Emma insisted I wear. Ree and I look as if we’re from the same coven. “Though I have to say, for a last-minute costume party, this turned out pretty spectacular.”
And it really has. The haunted mansion glows against the night sky like something from a Tim Burton fever dream, while the cemetery display has been transformed into party central with cocktail tables scattered between the tombstones and a dessert buffet that would make a professional caterer give a spontaneous applause. Fog machines pump mist across the cobblestones at regular intervals, and “Werewolves of London” drifts from hidden speakers while half the crowd howls along.
My phone buzzes against my hip, and I check it to find another text from Hot Stuff.
Detective Dreamboat: Still breathing? Haven’t heard any screaming yet, which I’m taking as a good sign.
I text back.
Josie: All limbs accounted for. Your mother hasn’t tried to poison me with small talk yet.
His response is immediate.
