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“This is everything I dreamed it would be,” Delora says, clutching Ree’s arm. Both of them are pulsating with barely contained fangirl energy. “Twenty-plus cozy mystery authors. A week of readings, panels, and workshops. Did you see the schedule? Tomorrow there’s a ‘How to Poison Your Characters’ session!”

Nothing ominous about hosting that one on my property. Nope. Not a thing.

“I’ve already signed us up,” Ree confirms. “We’re also doing the ‘Kill Your Darlings’ workshop and the murder mystery dinner theater on Thursday.”

Georgie adjusts her witchy cat ears. “As long as nobody actually kills anyone, I’m game. Though if they’re offering volunteers, I know a few ex-husbands who could use a good stabbing.”

“Georgie—”

“Fictional stabbing,” she clarifies. “Very legal. Very therapeutic.”

“About that,” I start just as a full-throated scream rips across the hollow, slicing through the spooky-themed music, the thunder, and every conversation in Bayou Bend, and maybe all of Huckleberry Hollow while it’s at it.

Ree grabs my arm. Georgie perks up as if someone just rang a dinner bell. She would.

This is why we can’t have nice things.

CHAPTER 2

Here’s a fun fact about running a theme park during spooky season: you develop an ear for screams the way mothers develop an ear for suspicious silence.

Another round of them tears through Bayou Bend Hollow, and this batch sounds distinctly enthusiastic. Zero genuine terror, heavy on the fangirl.

Thank goodness. My heart can’t afford the alternative.

All around us, the hollow is dressed to unnerve. Jack-o’-lanterns leer from hay bales stacked along the walkways, their carved grins winking in and out of the dark, and fake cobwebs drape through the moss-laden trees as though the spiders unionized and demanded more square footage.

The Haunted Mansion looms over it all with candlelight pulsing in its windows, the ground fog curling thick around our ankles, and the crisp October air smelling of funnel cake, cinnamon, and woodsmoke. It’s creepy perfection, if I do say so myself. And I do. Often. Loudly. To anyone within earshot.

We all turn toward the makeshift stage where a woman plants herself under the spotlight as if it were installed specifically for her. Never mind the twenty other authors on the schedule. As far as she’s concerned, they’re the opening act.

It’s Belladonna Hershey herself.

Even from here, she’s striking. Tall, easily five-nine, with her silver-white hair swept into an elegant chignon. She’s wearing black from head to toe, a flowing gown, a cape with drama to spare, and a sparkling purple witch’s hat that doubles as its own spotlight. The whole ensemble screams I have a publicist and a book deal, accessorized with appropriately spooky statement jewelry—silver ravens dangling from her ears, onyx rings stacked on three fingers, and a heart-shaped ruby at her throat so dark it looks filled with blood. Festive.

Her pale blue eyes sweep the crowd as if she’s cataloging faces for future use in her novels. Specifically, the ones she wants to kill off.

The crowd goes absolutely wild as though a rock star just materialized in front of us. And I guess one did. The literary variety, anyway. Belladonna gives a graceful bow and soaks in the applause as if it were her primary food source.

“I can’t believe it’s Belladonna Hershey in the flesh!” Ree raves as she clutches her scarf, her eyes never leaving the woman on stage. By the looks of it, she doesn’t dare blink for fear of missing a single moment. I’ve known Ree for ages, and I’ve never seen her so worked up before. But Ms. Hershey here seems to have that effect on her.

“Is it wrong that I’m suddenly craving a candy bar?” I mutter.

“The chocolate kind or the deadly nightshade variety?” Georgie whispers with a note of glee in her voice. “I’m getting a murdery feeling about this crowd.”

I don’t think she’s too upset over this either.

I can’t help but frown. “Seeing that this crowd considers murder a good way to relax and unwind, I’d better alert security.” I’m only half-teasing. The other half is already drafting the memo.

Belladonna belts out a cackle worthy of any wicked witch, and a chill runs up my spine as she commands that stage. Something about her feels off, as if she’d compliment your dress while planning your funeral. Open casket, so everyone could see the dress.

Delora and Ree emit a frequency of squeals I’ve only ever heard at boy band reunions and Black Friday doorbusters.

Dexter hikes a brow at the display, and my insides bisect with heat. I can’t help it. The man is hotter than hellfire. Every woman here swoons his way. Or they did, before Belladonna took the stage and stole his thunder.

“Yeah, yeah,” Georgie says, craning her neck. “What I want to know is where are her hot, buff bodyguards? You know the ones. Biceps that could double as flotation devices and an alarming lack of shirts. I was promised shirtless security. I want to file a complaint.”

“Take it up with management,” I say. “Oh, wait. That’s me.”