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“You know something about this case you’re not sharing,” I say.

He just smiles. It’s a good smile, warm and maddening in equal parts, and it tells me exactly nothing except that he’d rather keep me tucked safely on the sidelines, far away from anyone with a talent for fence posts.

And I get it. I do. It’s his case.

And mine—but I keep that second part to myself.

We sit there, holding hands across a Halloween-decorated table in a café full of costumed guests and murder suspects, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere along the way, this became the job description—theme park owner, amateur detective, and girlfriend of the very patient man whose mother just crashed our dinner date to discuss murder.

It’s weird, it’s chaotic, and it’s absolutely insane.

And somehow, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Turns out, the scariest thing in the room isn’t the killer. It’s realizing your boyfriend’s mother might be better at this detective thing than both of you.

CHAPTER 17

Halloween night has finally arrived, and if October were a person, it just strutted through the front gates of Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland wearing glitter, fake lashes, having zero impulse control, and a hankering for anything dipped in chocolate.

Okay, fine, the hankering is mine. But on a calorie-laden night like tonight, I’m sure the sweet sentiment is shared by many.

It’s that perfect early-evening hour where the sky is lit up in pink and tangerine colors, and every light in the park is working overtime to prove fire hazards can be festive. Jack-o’-lanterns grin from every available surface like they know something I don’t, fog machines are pumping out enough mist to create a biological hazard, and the whole place smells like churros mingling with smoked turkey legs and what I’m really hoping is just overheated machinery and not an actual electrical fire.

I’m standing with Ree and Georgie near Huckleberry Lane, waiting for the Halloween Spooktacular Parade to kick off, and actively regretting my costume choices.

All of them.

Every single one.

“I look like a backup dancer for a very confused Vegas show,” I mutter, tugging at the skintight purple catsuit currently cutting off circulation to what’s left of my self-respect. The costume shop called it “Sexy Feline Fantasy.” I’m calling it “What Happens When You Wait Until Three Hours Before Halloween to Find a Costume and Regret Every Decision That Led You to This Moment.” Catchy title. I should write a book.

A pair of sparkly purple cat ears sit perched on my head. A tail that’s thankfully detachable swishes behind me with every move I make. And the whole ensemble is so tight I’m pretty sure I’m going to need scissors to get out of it later. Or a crowbar. Or a very patient team of firefighters, which, given the fog machine situation, might already be on their way.

Henrietta swings from my neck, and oddly one of her plastic eyes manages to look judgmental in the parade lights, which is impressive for a severed doll head.

Savvy insisted I wear her for protection. So far the only thing she’s protecting me from is looking normal. Come to think of it, I might want protection from her.

“You look like a purple cat on a hot tin roof on Halloween night,” Georgie counters. She’s wrapped in yellow caution tape and wearing a black bodysuit with a chalk outline of a dead body printed across her stomach. “I, however, look like a work of art.”

“You look like a liability lawsuit that learned to walk,” Ree says, adjusting the green apron she’s wearing over sensible slacks and a cardigan.

Ree’s gone full cozy mystery sleuth. Magnifying glass on a chain, orthopedic shoes, and a name tag on her apron that says “Bizzy” in a cheerful font. She’s basically cosplaying as her own daughter, which has to be a parenting milestone nobody warns you about. I haven’t decided if I’m charmed or concerned.

“Does Bizzy know you’re stealing her identity?” I tease.

“She’s the one that helped me accessorize—and even gave me the apron.” Ree grins. “She thinks it’s hilarious.”

“It’s a true-crime documentary in the making where the victim helped pick out the wardrobe,” Georgie says. “Let’s keep Red here away from the wrought-iron fencing, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s an homage to my daughter,” Ree insists.

“It’s identity fraud,” Georgie counters.

“Maybe I should let Bizzy borrow Henrietta. You know, to keep her safe,” I offer, and Ree swats me with her magnifying glass.

Fish and Chip sit at my feet, staring up at the glitter-covered disaster I currently call an outfit with the unmistakable smugness of cats proven right about my decision-making skills since the day we met.