“Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it’s not funny, it’s obviously not funny, it wasn’t that kind of laugh—”
“Millie, take a breath.”
Kenzo steps in front of her, putting himself between her and the rest of the room, trying to shield her from what she’s already seen.
Millie feels her knees go soft, and the next thing she knows, she’s sitting on the edge of Jaxon’s bed.
The spaghetti lies abandoned in the doorway, the tray upended, the bowl and glass both shattered on the floor, and the crash must have echoed through the house, or maybe they’re just all wound tight enough at this point, their senses tuned to trouble, because Priscilla and Cate are suddenly there. Cate sees Jaxon and physically scrambles back, hands to her mouth, while Priscilla gasps but manages to steady, sucking the shock back into herself.
Millie blinks, but it’s like she’s double-screening—watching a movie while scrolling on her phone, missing important dialogue, but this time there’s no way to rewind. She catches snippets of what the others are saying, interspersed with the roaring in her head.
“The door was locked,” whispers Cate. “Just like Millie’s. So how did they get in?”
“Well,someonehad a key,” says Priscilla, eyeing Kenzo.
“I was in the kitchen with you!” he snaps back.
“Not the whole time, though,” says Millie. “I mean, I saw you coming down the stairs.”
“I went to get my typewriter.”
Millie looks to Priscilla. “You were up here, too.”
“Sure,” she says, “butIdon’t have a key.”
“Well,I’mnot a murderer,” counters Kenzo, and if Jaxon were here right now—like, alive—he’d point out that that’s exactly what a murderer would say. The thought makes Millie’s throat go tight.
“Someone stole his pages.” Cate’s voice is soft, but it cuts cleanly through. And she’s right. The sheet in the typewriter is gone, and the stack of blank paper beside it is way smaller than the one waiting for them all when they arrived. A bottle of Wite-Out is tipped over, leaking onto the desk. Jaxon was finally writing. Sadness tightens Millie’s chest.
Kenzo heads for the door.
“Where are you going?” demands Priscilla.
“I don’t intend to wait around another day and hope we’re still alive to get our shit out of the safe. We tried hacking it, but we didn’t try good old-fashioned force. I’m going to get my ax.”
“What happened to not splitting up?” asks Millie, and the look that crosses Kenzo’s face says it all, the way his eyes flick from Millie to Cate to Priscilla.
Because either Arthur Fletch’s violent ghost is haunting the House That Petrarch Built, stalking and picking off the guests... or one of them is a killer.
Kenzo storms out of the room, and Millie wants to rush after him, but one thing stops her.
The fact that it could be him.
He vanishes down the hall, footsteps thudding on the stairs, and then it’s just the three of them, and Millie’s looking from Priscilla to Cate, trying to figure out which of them would—could—do a thing like this.
“None of this makes anysense,” says Priscilla, pinching the bridge of her nose. Millie searches her face for any hint of guilt. But she’s good. She’s very good.
“Do you think someone saw him as a threat?” asks Cate.
And maybe Millie’s imagining it, but Cate flashes her a look, like she might be suspecting Priscilla too. Why else would she have moved to the opposite side of the room, standing against the wall, about as far away from Priscilla as she can get and still keep an eye on her? Unless she thinks Millie’s the killer? But that’s ridiculous.
A soft click, swiftly followed by an “Oh!” from Cate. She steps away in surprise. Millie gets to her feet. Priscilla turns.
Cate must have leaned back against the wall, which turns out to be not a wall but a hidden panel. One of those spring-loaded ones, like her mom’s kitchen cabinets, revealing a sliver of darkness.
“What the...” murmurs Priscilla as all three of them draw closer.
It’s not just a panel.
