Chapter 17 The Betrayal
the betrayal [trope]
the gut-wrenching moment when trust shatters like a cheap wineglass; often delivered by a lover, the betrayal flips alliances, exposes secrets, and occasionally ends with someone bleeding out on the floor
My knuckles tap against the frosted glass of Celeste’s office door, and her voice calls, “Come in,” distracted and clipped.
I push the door open and step inside. She’s hunched over her desk, her sharp black bob glossy under the office light, the pale blue glow of her computer screen reflected in the lenses of her black-framed glasses.
Her red-stained lips are parted slightly, like she’s just seen a ghost lurking in the pixels.
“Hey.” I close the door. “Everything okay?”
Her gaze is still glued to the screen, her posture rigidly perfect despite the tension in her shoulders. “Did you see these numbers?” she asks, finally looking at me. “It’s… crazy. We’ve never had this many listeners. Not even close.”
My stomach churns, a mix of excitement and dread. After my visit to my grandmother yesterday, I completely forgot about this. “It’s because of that Reddit post,” I say, making my way in and flopping down on the chair. “The one about the murders. It went viral.”
Her expression darkens, her brow creasing.
“Scarlett…” She pauses, choosing her words with surgical precision the way she always does.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, because the podcast deserves recognition.
But…” She gestures at the screen, her hand hovering uncertainly.
“God, this isn’t how I wanted it to happen. ”
I feel it, too, that strange, sour edge to our sudden success. “People are asking if we’re going to address the murders in the next episode,” I venture. “Do you think we should?”
“Absolutely not,” she says in a firm voice. “We’re a fiction podcast, Scarlett. That’s what we do—fiction. We’re not the news.”
Frustration prickles at the edges of my thoughts. Part of me hoped she’d see this as an opportunity, a chance to do something meaningful for Willowbrook. But I can see the fear in her eyes, her desperate need to keep our little podcasting world separate from the horrors of reality.
“You’re right,” I agree. “Fiction it is.”
Her shoulders relax visibly. “Speaking of fiction,” she says, her tone brightening slightly, “I have some feedback on your first Passion & Pages episode.”
I lean in, curiosity sparked. Celeste pulls a sheet of paper from her desk drawer and slides it toward me. There isn’t a single mark or note on it.
“Really?” My eyebrows shoot up.
“Perfect, Scarlett,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “Your analysis was spot-on. I mean, I might actually pick up the book. It’s clear you really connected with the story.”
Warmth spreads through my chest.
“The way you described the tension between Luca and Simone,” Celeste continues, “it felt like the romance was jumping right off the page.”
“Thanks.” I hadn’t even realized I was so nervous about this. “I really enjoyed it.”
She glances at her screen. “Oh, and before I forget, I’ve booked you to record with Theo on Wednesday. Think you’ll be ready?”
“Yeah, I’ll be ready.”
“Good,” she says. When I stay put, she asks, “Anything else?”
“Uh, yeah, actually.” I dry the sweat off my hands on my thighs. “I went to see my grandparents yesterday. My brother said something that… Anyway, it turns out they want to send him to Virginia. And I was thinking of maybe reaching out to Steve to see if he has any advice.”
Her brows furrow tightly. “Are you at the stage of involving lawyers?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “I just want to be ready if that time comes. But if it makes anyone uncomfortable—I mean, I know he’s your husband, and…” And you’re lying about your separation.
“Why should anyone be uncomfortable?” She grabs her cell phone and starts typing. “I’ll tell him to clear his schedule for you.”
She’s raising her phone to her ear before I can get a word in, so I watch her telling Steve about the situation. Maybe Mrs. Prattle got it wrong—it wouldn’t be the first time. But then again, I’m pretty sure I saw Celeste in The Oak’s parking lot with someone who looks nothing like Steve.
Nah. It couldn’t have been her. This woman making out in a parking lot? I glance at her—sleek black hair tucked neatly behind her ears, spotless crisp white blouse, nails perfectly manicured. She looks like she just stepped out of a boardroom, not a late-night scandal.
“Friday?”
She’s talking to me, so I nod.
“Okay. Yes, eleven a.m. All right, I’ll see you later. Bye.” She hangs up, then claps. “All done. He’ll help with whatever you need—and don’t even think about paying any fee.”
“Celeste…”
“Come on. Get out.” She shoos me away. “We have work to do.”
Reluctantly, I step out of her office, the door clicking shut behind me as I throw a last thank-you her way.
I walk through the corridors of Booked It, my thoughts churning.
Steve will help, I tell myself. Even though it feels like I have no control.
Like Ethan is being taken away from me all over again.
I pause by my desk, my fingers brushing the edge of my computer monitor. Feeling observed, I look up and meet Theo’s gaze. The air between us feels heavy, loaded with words left unsaid and accusations. My chest tightens at the memory of Saturday night.
I’m not ready to face him. Not now, not after he accused Rafael of being a serial killer. Without a word, I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder.
“You heading out?” he asks as I step past him.
I avoid his gaze. “Yeah, just need some air.”
He hesitates, and I think he might say something. Apologize, maybe. But nothing comes. Instead, I sense his eyes on me as I walk toward the door.
“Scarlett!” Mrs. Prattle cheers from the deserted office of the Willowbrook Whistle. I close the door behind me as she stands and quickly walks closer. “How are you, dear? I hear you had quite a lot of fun Saturday night, didn’t you?”
I hesitate. “Uh, I—yes.” I swear, I’ll never get used to this part of living in a small town. “Did someone see me dance the Macarena?”
“They sure did, honey,” she says as she finally reaches my side. With a snap of her fingers, she turns to the coffee machine. “Oh, let me get you a coffee.”
“No, I’m fine, I—” She’s already filling a cup, so I let it go. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Please! They only want me here to watch the place, and Tuesday’s a slow day.” She holds the cup out for me. “Nowadays, the kids do all their work on their computers.”
I accept the cup. Only hearing the way she says “computers” like they’re offensive makes me feel better.
“What brings you here?” she asks, gesturing at the cluttered office.
“Uh, I actually… I was wondering if you had any material about Catherine Blake and Mallory Young that hasn’t been published.”
With a curious tilt of her head, she walks to the closest desk.
“What a terrible ordeal, isn’t it? The police say it’s someone local, but what do they know?
Chief Donovan can’t even play a hand of poker, and that young cop they hired, Trevor?
He smokes grass.” She moves a pile of folders and papers.
“It’s gotta be someone from out of town, right?
Who would kill a woman as sweet as Mallory? ”
She looks like she expects me to weigh in, so I nod. I wish I could tell her the police are wrong, but they have a point. It makes sense that the killer would choose to hunt on familiar ground, which would make them a local.
“I just hope the police know what they’re doing,” she says as she grabs a large box, then sets it on the desk. “She was going to be married in March, you know.”
“Mallory?”
“Had just sent the invitations out.” When she cups her mouth with a shaky hand, I reach into my bag for tissues. With a sniffle, she refuses them. “Oh, don’t worry about me, darling. You’ll find some pictures here—my nephew took them.”
“Thank you.”
“Is this something for your… radio show?”
“Uh, no.” I grab the first stack of pictures, looking through shots outside Catherine’s house. “I’m just… curious, I guess.”
Her brows knit together, but she quickly wipes the dubious expression off her face. “Always said you take after your father. Well, I’ll be outside—wouldn’t want to miss the after-Pilates gossip.”
I smile in a silent thank-you before she walks away, then sit on the closest chair and begin going through the pictures.
I’m not sure what I expect to find. It’s not like the killer posed for a picture in front of the police.
But maybe I’ll notice some similarities.
Something that connects the two victims. Something that’ll tell me how the killer chose them.
Honestly, I just want to find something.
As I flip through the pictures, a flash of purple catches my eye through the window.
It’s Paige, in her favorite oversize hoodie, talking to Mrs. Prattle and waving cigarette smoke away.
Her auburn curls are pulled into a haphazard high ponytail, a few damp tendrils stuck to her temple from what must have been an aggressive Pilates session.
Mrs. Prattle must have told her I’m in here, because Paige turns her head and meets my gaze with a puzzled expression.
Just great.
She pushes the door open and leans in. “Tell me you’re not obsessing over local murders, I beg of you.”
I set the photos down. “It’s not my fault this time.”
“Isn’t it?” She walks in, closing the door behind her with a pointed hip-bump, and struts over. Seeing the stack of pictures of Catherine’s funeral, she sighs. “Oh, boy.”
“No—seriously. I just needed to run away from Theo, and I didn’t feel like being at home.”
“Run away from Theo?”
I guess he didn’t tell her. “Saturday night, he said…” I scoff. The thought, although baseless and absurd, makes me uncomfortable. “He said Rafael might be the murderer.”
With a half-hearted chuckle, she drops onto the chair next to me. “Wait, what?”
“I know, it’s crazy.”
Eyes drifting over the desk, she gasps. “You don’t believe him, right?”
“I just said it’s crazy.”
“Right. It is.” She points at the pictures. “So what are you doing, exactly?”
I don’t know. Maybe I want to discover who the killer is so I can prove Theo wrong. Maybe my trust issues are deep enough that even his baseless accusations are making me pause. Maybe it’s because I want to trust Rafael, but he is keeping a few secrets.
“Okay, Scarlett,” Paige says, rolling her chair closer. She takes both my hands in hers, squeezing hard enough to make my fingers tingle, and her green eyes lock on mine, deadly serious. “Do you want me to become a serial killer? Because I will kill you, then Theo.”
“Technically, that’s not ‘serial’—”
“Jesus, Scarlett. Theo has always been protective of you. You know that.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“So don’t let what he’s saying affect you. Promise?” When I nod, she pats my hand and stands up, then tucks the chair back against the desk. “Vanessa is waiting for me for brunch.” Throwing a disdainful look at the pictures, she sighs. “Please find something a little cheerier to obsess over?”
I mumble “Bye” when she waves, watching her walk out of the Whistle. It’s not like I believed Theo before, but knowing she also thinks he’s being unreasonable makes me feel better.
I go back to the pictures, and with one stack out of the way, I sink farther into the chair and look up at the ceiling.
Catherine and Mallory both lived in houses—there are few apartment complexes in Willowbrook anyway.
They were both women, and they both… had white mailboxes, I guess.
Everything else about them is different.
According to social media, their ages, occupations, friends—nothing was similar about them. They dressed differently, they lived in different areas, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find out they never even exchanged more than a couple of words.
“What am I even doing?” I ask as I grab a stack of photos. The picture on top was taken at Catherine’s funeral, and I can spot her family next to the casket, their expressions filled with the type of sorrow that only comes from unexpected grief.
I set the stack of photos down, sending a bunch of them sliding over the desk. This is pointless.
“Find anything interesting?”
I turn to Mrs. Prattle entering the office, then shake my head as she walks to the computer. She says something about the times we live in, and I figure it’s my cue to leave. I probably won’t find anything here.
I group all the pictures together, and one slips under the box. Before I can put it back on the stack, I notice that the angle caught someone withdrawn from the crowd, standing next to a tree that shadows their face.
But I know who that is.
Those wide shoulders, the curls over his forehead, the tattoos peeking out of the collar of his shirt. It’s Rafael.
My heart gallops in my chest until I find the stack of photos from Mallory’s funeral. I flip through them, lungs burning with every breath, until I find a shot of the mourners… and Rafael is in the background.
He was there. At both funerals. He’s only been back in town less than two weeks—how could he possibly have known both victims well enough to go to their funerals? And why wouldn’t he have said anything?
Unless… unless he is their killer.
Unless he’s interested not in me but in my podcast.
Unless I’m living not in a romance but in a very twisted thriller.
“Scarlett, dear. Is everything okay?”
When Mrs. Prattle cups my shoulder, I flinch, looking back but not really seeing. My brain is a mosh pit of tangled thoughts, and fear is choking me, shutting down my airway.
“You need a glass of water. And to stop looking at those sad pictures.”
I watch Mrs. Prattle saunter over to the coffee machine, then take a bottle of water from the cabinet.
Quickly, I grab a stack of pictures and shove them into my bag, not even sure they’re the right ones.
“It’s—it’s okay, Mrs. Brattle. Thank you.
” I set the remaining pictures back in the box, then grab my bag.
“I need to go. I’ll, uh, see you later.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, but I’m out the door before I realize I’m not in a condition to drive, and I don’t know where to go.
Home is where Rafael is.
And Rafael might be a serial killer.