Chapter 10 The Foreshadowing
the foreshadowing [trope]
a sneaky literary maneuver in which minor details hint at big, heart-throbbing, or painfully awkward events to come; in rom-coms, often disguised as offhand remarks about never dating coworkers, accidental hand touches, or a quirky side character saying, “you two would make such a cute couple.” best enjoyed when you don’t realize it’s happening until the big reveal
“So, what do you think?” I ask into the phone, pacing back toward the couch. It’s taken me a while to explain everything to Celeste.
“I think you sound frantic, and I’d like you to calm—”
“We are way past calming down!” I screech. “Celeste, we have to stop airing the episodes until this is over. We have to. That’s the only solution.”
Silence. Then a disbelieving laugh. “Wait, what?”
“I’m serious.” My heart hammers as I grip the back of the couch, fingers digging into the fabric. “I can’t be responsible for someone else getting killed, okay? This is—”
“Scarlett,” she cuts in. “Why don’t you relax and take a breath?”
“I can’t.” My steps quicken as I cross the room and back again. “Just listen. Please. Think about the books, the crimes. Tell me you don’t see it.”
A pause. “I guess they’re somewhat similar?”
“Somewhat similar?” I rub the heel of my hand against my temple. “Almost everything’s the same! And the episodes aired on the same nights both times. How can you not see it?”
She sighs, and I can practically picture her leaning back in her chair. Maybe it’s not that she doesn’t see it but that she doesn’t want to. “Scarlett, there are other podcasts out there covering these books. They’re bestsellers, for crying out loud.”
“But we’re the only one in Willowbrook,” I argue. “That can’t be by chance.”
“Okay. Let’s say you’re right. You know Booked It is struggling. If we stopped airing Murders & Manuscripts, I’d have to fire you and everyone else.” She clears her throat. “And besides, shutting down the podcast might make this whole situation worse.”
“What do you mean?” My steps falter, and I stop in the middle of the room, staring blankly at the floor.
“If the killer is using the podcast for their murders and we cut them off—” She hesitates. “We don’t know how they’ll react. They could go on a spree. Or even target… us. You, me, our families.”
I swallow hard, the thought sending a chill through me. “So we just do nothing?”
“No.” Her voice firms up. “I’m going to the police and telling them what’s happening.”
“But I tried, and they—”
“They’ll listen to me, Scarlett.”
Right. If anyone can make the police listen, it’s her.
“I’ve got this.”
I rub a sore spot on my shoulder. “Okay. Please, make sure they take it seriously.”
“I will.”
I breathe out, feeling like I’ve lost a hundred pounds off my shoulders already. Celeste being on my side is the closest thing to a parent watching over me that I have left, and I hadn’t even realized how much I needed that today.
“Thank you,” I say, before Mrs. Prattle’s gossip comes back to me.
Celeste should be able to count on me the same way I count on her, shouldn’t she?
“And hey, Celeste, if you… if you ever want to talk about anything—not just work but everything else—you can. You know that, right?”
She sighs. “Oh, boy. What did you hear?”
“Nothing,” I rush out, hoping it sounds convincing enough. “I just… I’m always depending on you. I want you to know you can count on me, too.”
“That’s sweet, Scarlett. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I bite my lip, giving her a moment to talk. When she says nothing, I venture, “So… everything good with you? Steve? The kids?”
“Everything’s great, sweetie. Lara is still at UConn, Chris graduates from high school next year. And Steve always asks about you.”
I smile, though it’s a sad little grin. I’ll respect her right to privacy and won’t call her out on her lie, but I wish she felt free to discuss all of this with me.
“I’ll head to the police station now. Okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”
The line clicks off, and I let my phone fall onto the couch. For a moment, I just stand there, staring at nothing, my chest tight. Then, with a shaky breath, I turn and head for the bathroom.
A shower. That’s what I need to get rid of this adrenaline. A long shower until it doesn’t feel like I’m the reason these murders are happening. Like these people’s blood is on my hands.
I strip off my clothes, each layer feeling heavier than the last as it falls to the floor.
I step into the shower, and though the warm water hits me like a release, I feel as tense as ever, my muscles knotted tight.
I press my palms against the cool tile and let the water fill my ears with a rushing sound that drowns out the churning in my mind.
I go over Celeste’s words, trying to calm myself, trying to find some thread of logic to cling to. But the what-ifs swirl around me, thickening the air until it feels hard to breathe. What if the police don’t believe her? What if this person—whoever they are—hurts someone else? Or comes after us?
The water turns from comforting warmth to a too-hot sting on my shoulders, but I can’t bring myself to move. My stomach twists, every beat of my heart a pulse of panic.
Then I hear the doorbell.
“Fuck.” I step out of the shower at record speed. “Coming!” I call, though I can’t be sure they hear me, and once I have my usual yellow towel wrapped around me, I head down the stairs.
I nearly face-plant on the carpet before I open the door, peephole be damned, and freeze on the spot as my eyes land on Rafael’s crookedly charming smile. My heart does an odd little flip.
Rafael’s back. And he’s at my door.
I smooth my wet hair, trying to mask the flurry of emotions swirling inside me.
“You’re here,” I say. My gaze sweeps over him, taking in the loose white button-down shirt, sleeves bunched up enough to reveal his forearms, and the leather jacket swung over one shoulder.
Sherlock is dangling from his arm, legs flailing as he tries to escape Rafael’s hold. “Is that my cat?”
He steps forward, carefully placing Sherlock on the ground, who immediately trots over to me, tail flicking in irritation. “I found him snooping on my porch.”
“Rooo,” Sherlock protests, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to defend his honor.
“Fun fact: he hates me,” Rafael says with a lopsided grin. “But I swear he was making that noise before I got him,” he adds, raising his hands in mock surrender.
My heart still races. “No, he’s—that’s how he meows.” I glance at him again, struggling to believe he’s standing at my door. “You’re back.”
He lifts a takeout bag. “And I got Chinese.”
Of course he did. I watch him warily. “Did you get wontons?”
“What kind of barbarian shows up at a woman’s house with Chinese food and no wontons?”
“Come in.” I open the door wider, and his eyes flick down my body, taking in the sight of my towel. Though men have looked at me with desire before, the way his eyes instantly darken feels completely different. It feels… primal. Instinctual. Inevitable.
It shoots straight into my belly, warmth pooling at my core.
“How’s it going?” I ask, but he doesn’t seem to hear me, eyes still on the towel. “Rafael?” I call, fighting the instinct to clench my legs.
“Uh, wh-what?” he stammers, and I bite back a smirk. “Caught me looking, didn’t you?”
My cheeks heat. “Uh-huh.”
“Can you blame me?” He points up and down at me. “That is one stunning towel.”
“Oh, yeah. Seventy percent cotton.” I let him in, then follow him to the kitchen and lean against the counter as he unpacks the food. He names each dish as he uncovers it, and I can’t help noticing the faint shadows under his eyes and the stiffness in his posture.
I wonder if he’s okay—really okay. I know he skipped his dad’s funeral, but where has he been? He looks tired. Maybe he needs to talk.
“Everything looks amazing,” I say, breaking the silence as I take a seat.
“Yeah.” He lets the kitchen towel flop onto the island, sitting down on the stool next to me. “It’s also forty-eight hours late.”
Meeting his apologetic gaze, I bite into a spring roll. So much has happened today that this seems almost silly to discuss. “We’re diving in headfirst, huh?”
“I hear that’s what people in mature relationships do. You know, communication and all that.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure people in mature relationships don’t blow each other off.”
When he frowns, I bump my shoulder against his.
“I didn’t blow you off. In fact—” He digs into his back pocket and takes his phone out. “Can you just give me your number?”
I grab a wonton. “That depends. What happened?”
He sets the phone back down. “Nothing. I mean, just a work emergency. I would have texted you, but—”
“What emergency?”
He watches me as I chew, biting his lip.
“I thought mature relationships were based on communication.”
He leans closer, gaze dipping to my lips. “So you admit we’re in a relationship, huh?”
I fight a giggle. “That’s some big talk from someone who doesn’t even have my number.”
He pushes the phone closer. “My boss sent me four hours away on an assignment. I hated every second, and I thought about you the whole time.” He exhales. “Now, please, give me your number, Scarlett Moore.”
“Hmm.” When it looks like he can’t take it anymore, I grab the phone. “Fine. But don’t abuse it.”
“Of course not. Just some good ol’ sexting.” He pops half a spring roll into his mouth and brings a hand to his chest. “Cross my heart.”
Once I’ve tapped my number in, I give it back. I see his fingers moving on the screen, and after a moment, my phone lights up beside me.
I pick it up and read:
Rafael
What are you wearing under that stunning towel?
“Funny,” I playfully scold.
His shoulder bumps against mine. “About as funny as keeping me on my toes all the time.”
I shift on the stool, inching away from him. “Oh, I can stop immediately if you don’t like it.”