Vanilla Glazed Valentine Vendetta (MURDER IN THE MIX #52)

1. The Killer

THE KILLER

T he ballroom is all gloss and glitter tonight, decked out with gaudy, heart-shaped decor that looks like something a lovesick teenager dreamed up.

Red and pink balloons everywhere, lace hearts draped over every surface—it’s nauseating. But perfect. It hides me, lets me blend in with the rest of these wide-eyed fools who think Honey Hollow is this quaint, sleepy little town. This place is practically a homicide factory, and they don’t even realize it.

Innocent? Hardly. And tonight, it’s about to add to its tally.

They’re here, of course, soaking up the spotlight. Laughing, sipping champagne as if they’re royalty, basking in their own inflated sense of importance. The more I watch them, the more my adrenaline kicks up a notch.

They have no idea. None at all. They think they’ve beaten me, that their precious little world is untouchable. So smug. So disgustingly smug. And oh, how I’ll enjoy watching that crumble.

My gaze sweeps the room, taking in Honey Hollow’s so-called finest. There’s Lottie Lemon, bless her heart, looking chipper and insufferable, passing out trays of those overpriced desserts of hers, her little belly growing more gargantuan by the day.

Not that I pity her—no, she’s nothing but a busybody with a bakery and two lapdogs she’s convinced herself are in love with her. Well, maybe they are. But still, what a fantasy world those three have wrapped themselves up in.

And those men? Everett, with his nauseating protectiveness, hovering like a guard dog ready to growl and bite. And Noah, that so-called morally superior, straitlaced detective who can’t take a hint if it was spelled out in a neon sign.

And let’s not forget Carlotta. A self-satisfied cawing crow in heels—and in perpetual heat. The woman pecks at anyone who dares cross her path. I can’t stand her. She thinks she’s so clever, so funny, with her foul-mouthed antics. I’ve got news for her—that little act of hers has worn thin. She’s like every other person in this town—blissfully, ignorantly happy, convinced that Honey Hollow is just a cozy dream come to life.

But tonight isn’t for them. No, tonight is for someone else entirely.

The lights dim, casting a warm glow across the room, softening the harsh lines, making everyone look just a little surreal.

I watch as my target moves closer, smiling, laughing, hand in hand with those little gestures that practically scream they own this town. And, of course, the room eats it up, just like they eat up those cutesy little cookies and pastries they jam down everyone’s throat.

Everyone thinks they’re perfect. They don’t know the truth—the lies, the betrayals, the hypocrisy that rots beneath that gleaming smile. They are so very far from perfect.

But the night is young, and I’m in no rush to exact my revenge.

Timing is everything, and tonight they will finally know that for all their schemes, their charm, their hold on all of Vermont— they’re not invincible. They’re as vulnerable as anyone else, and I will be the one to remind them of that.

I edge closer, weaving through the couples swaying to the music, through friends chatting with that obnoxious small-town warmth that turns my stomach. One step at a time, with every footfall bringing me closer to my destiny.

The music grows in volume, drowning out the murmur of voices. And I’m there, standing close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of their eyes, the joy in their face. And all of it is about to shatter.

I’m going to shatter it myself.

A dark smile curves on my lips at the thought.

I’m just about ready to end this little charade.

It’s time to take control of my destiny.

And theirs.