“It’s a draft!” snaps Millie. “And I’m not about to letyoujudge it.”
“Oh, for the love of—I don’t care about your ending, Millie! I care about stayingalive.” Her eyes drop to the suitcase, now locked, at Millie’s feet. “Is that where you’ve hidden Jaxon’s pages?”
“What? No!”
“Why don’t you show us?” Cate’s voice is gentle, coaxing. As if she’s on Millie’s side. “Just to put Priscilla’s mind at rest.”
Anger bristles in Millie’s chest. “Why don’t we take a good look at Priscilla,” she growls, eyeing her. Even after everything, the woman is still somehow so composed, as if she knows she has nothing to be afraid of. And the only way that’s true is if it’s her.
“She’sthe one whose bags we should be searching,” spits Millie. “She’sthe one I caught sneaking around right before Sienna—”
“You’re not doing yourself any favors here,” Priscilla cuts in smoothly. But Millie can see Cate’s certainty faltering.
Millie puts her foot on the suitcase and pushes it toward Priscilla. It glides smoothly on the polished wooden floor. “The code’s 0907.”
Priscilla crouches down and thumbs the lock.
“And I’m sure you won’t mind me searchingyourbag, too?” Before Priscilla has a chance to say or do anything, Millie dashes out of the room and down the hall.
“Millie, wait!”
But she doesn’t.
She reaches the other wing, flings open the door to Priscilla’s room.
Just like the woman who’s been staying there, it’s painfully neat. Her bed is made, from the fuchsia tartan throw arranged just so at the foot of the bed to the décor pillows; her clothes hang neatly in the open wardrobe; and her typewriter sits, untouched, on the corner of the desk, the full stack of pastel-pink paper tucked neatly beneath, like it’s just another piece of decoration. An afterthought.
Millie was going to search for the suitcase, but there’s no need.
Jaxon’s white pages are right there, on the dresser, filled with lines of neat black type.
“I knew it!” she says triumphantly as Priscilla and Cate arrive.
Cate gasps and recoils from Priscilla, whose face blooms in mock confusion.
“No....no. This is not...” For once, she is well and truly flustered. “Someone must have put them...”
Cate shakes her head, backing away as a familiar shade of blue catches Millie’s eye.
A sheet of paper sticks out from under the pillows on the bed. Millie rushes forward, flinging the cushion aside to revealherpages.
The ones she delivered to the cottage yesterday.
Priscilla’s eyes widen in a different way. Gone is the confusion. This—this isguilt.
She’s a thief, a plagiarist—and a murderer.
A cold-blooded killer wrapped in shades of warm-blooded pink.
“I should have known,” hisses Millie.
Priscilla shakes her head. “Calm down,” she says, taking that condescending tone. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Priscilla starts toward her. Millie scrambles back, searching for something to protect herself with. The decorations in each bedroom are eclectic, but luckily they all seem to featureweapons. A sword over the bed, a pair of daggers by the desk. A decorative mace, a half step to Millie’s right.
She wrenches it off the wall and plants her feet, like a heroine ready for battle. Priscilla lets out a nervous sound, halfway to a laugh, but Millie doesn’t find it funny.
She puts herself between Priscilla and the door. In a voice that shakes only a little bit, she tells Cate, “Go get Kenzo. Now.”
