Chapter 21 The Whodunit
the whodunit [trope]
a tantalizing puzzle wrapped in deception, where everyone’s a suspect and trust is a dangerous game; expect red herrings, dramatic gasps, and at least one overly confident detective jumping to the wrong conclusion
“What the hell,” I mumble as I drive along my street and notice the police cars lined up. “Good God, not again.”
My heartbeat thunders in my chest the second I catch sight of the police tape sealing off Mrs. Prattle’s house.
“No, no, no,” I say under my breath, pulling to the side of the road hastily.
I’m out of the car before I can think it through.
Wes and Vanessa are talking to a neighbor, their expressions grim, and they don’t notice me slipping past them, stepping under the taped-off area until I’m inside the house.
The metallic tang of blood hits me like a brick wall, making my stomach churn, but I force myself to keep moving, wobbling unsteadily down the narrow corridor into the small living room.
Until the pools of red soaking into the couch and carpet blur my vision, making my knees buckle.
“No,” I say, my hand finding the wall as I fight to stay upright. My breath is shallow and rapid, my pulse roaring in my ears. Mrs. Prattle. What the hell happened here? Last night’s episode was set in the library. This… this doesn’t fit. What’s going on?
“Scarlett?”
The voice sounds distant, muffled, like I’m underwater. I try to focus, but everything feels disjointed, surreal. Oh God, I can’t breathe.
“Scarlett?” The voice comes into focus this time, and so does Rafael’s face. Gray, worried eyes. A straight nose that once nuzzled the back of my neck. Soft, full lips that he used to press kisses to my cheeks. “Are you okay?”
Someone says something in the background, but I can’t make out what.
Rafael does, though, because he turns and says, “I know she’s not supposed to be here.
” Then he faces me again, his hand gripping my shoulder.
I should hate his touch, I know I should, but it grounds me just enough to feel the floor beneath my feet.
“Can you walk?”
“Penelope?” I manage as I point at the traces of blood. My throat feels raw, like I’ve swallowed glass. I don’t think I’ve ever called Mrs. Prattle by her first name before, but it slips out now.
“She’s safe at her son’s place. This was Mrs. Brattle’s next-door neighbor,” Rafael says grimly. “His wife said he used the spare keys last night when they saw something across the street at Mrs. Brattle’s house. He must have surprised the killer.”
It takes me a second to process, then my chest heaves as relief washes over me. It’s not Mrs. Prattle. But it lasts only a second before it’s swallowed by guilt.
“Rob,” I say. “Oh my God, Rob.”
Rafael nods solemnly.
Rob Wilkins. One of Ethan’s old teachers, and the man who mowed my lawn without fail every month and never asked for anything in return. The man who’s now… I don’t even want to think about it.
“B-but I don’t get it,” I stammer.
“We don’t, either,” Rafael says, holding me up. “Do you have any idea why the killer would stray from the pattern? Is there something in the last book about… axes or logs or—”
“Logs?” I interrupt.
“Yes. They were placed around the body like a…”
“Like a pyre,” I finish for him, my voice hollow.
His brows furrow. “But that wasn’t part of the book, was it?”
I can’t answer. My legs feel like they’re moving on their own as I push past him and step into the kitchen.
Rob’s body lies sprawled on the cold tiled floor.
His arms are pinned at awkward angles, and a pool of dark, viscous blood spreads beneath him.
Around him, logs of wood are arranged in a grotesque pattern.
His shirt is torn, the pale flesh of his chest marred by deep gashes, slashes so clean they almost look surgical.
His eyes are wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling, frozen in an expression of terror that makes bile rise in my throat.
“Rafael,” I call weakly, and in an instant, he’s at my side. His hand steadies me.
“You’re okay,” Rafael says soothingly. He’s next to me, his hand stroking my hair and tucking it away from my face. Leaning against him, I walk outside.
I’m supposed to be furious with him. Hell, I am. But I can’t afford pride right now. My heart is hammering, my ribs straining against each inhale as I crouch over the grass.
He’s quickly kneeling beside me, his forehead creased with worry, but he doesn’t look nauseated—or bothered at all.
“Not your first corpse, I take it?”
He solemnly shakes his head. “I’ve seen plenty.”
“Plenty,” I repeat, struggling to imagine a reality where this is a regular Friday.
I’ve lived my life fascinated by the morbid. Murders, serial killers, mysteries. It sure as hell feels different when it’s not within the pages of a book.
“Why do you do it? This job?”
He exhales, adjusting his jeans over his hips. “I wanted to be a cop, actually.”
“Really? A cop?”
“Yeah. Like your dad.”
I say nothing, brows arching.
“The academy probably wouldn’t have been good for me, though. I work best alone.”
“Rafael,” I say, accepting the water bottle Wes hands me, then waiting for him to walk away. “You need to work this case with me. I want to help you catch the Lit Killer.”
His brow furrows, the soft lines of concern hardening into something sharper. “The what now?”
“The Lit Killer.”
He presses his lips tight as if to contain a chuckle.
“What? Lit, like literature. I just figured… Stop laughing! It makes sense!”
I continue before he has a chance to say no.
“This is my town. My podcast. And they went for Mrs. Pr—Brattle.” My words tumble out in a rush.
“That woman is… She’s Mrs. Prattle! She bakes cookies for the neighborhood kids and lends out books from her personal collection like she’s running her own damn library.
And Rob is such a great guy. He didn’t deserve—”
“I know,” he says with a grimace. “But you’re too close, Scarlett. You can’t be objective.”
“What if I have information that will reduce the pool of suspects to only a handful?”
His lips flatten into a thin line, his resolve cracking. “Fine,” he relents. “You can help—but only if you promise not to put yourself in danger.” He points a finger at me, his tone deadly serious. “Promise.”
“I promise.”
He gestures for me to speak, so I lean closer.
“Last night’s episode—the library—was a setup for the murderer.
” He nods, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Which I only came up with on Wednesday. But the original episode was this one.” I point back at the house, shivering as the memory of the bloodstained kitchen flashes in my mind. “It never aired.”
His expression darkens, the realization sinking in. “Wait. That means the killer…”
“They’ve either read my scripts or listened to the podcast before it’s aired.” My eyes dart toward the familiar faces of neighbors lingering behind the police tape. A chill runs down my spine as I scan the crowd, suspicion gnawing at me. “It must be someone from Booked It.”
One of my colleagues.
“I looked into everyone at Booked It,” Rafael says, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “Every single person has an alibi—except…”
Don’t say it.
“Theo.”
“It’s not Theo!” I blurt out.
His lips twist, but I insist. “It’s not him. He edited the library episode. He knew it changed.”
“And if he’s the killer, he knew it was a trap.”
“It’s not Theo.”
He exhales sharply. “Would you have reacted differently if I told you that Celeste didn’t have an alibi?”
“It’s not Celeste, either!”
“Scarlett—”
“It’s not!” I snap. “She’s in full denial, Rafael. She went to the police, and trust me, she was pissed when people connected the murders to Booked It.”
He looks away, his hand raking through his hair.
“I know it’s not Celeste. She was visiting her kid at UConn in Groton during two of the murders.
But your colleagues aren’t the only people who have access to the episode before it airs.
Whoever this killer is, it must be someone close to you. Too close for you to be objective.”
I stare at him, searching his face for answers, my thoughts buzzing as one name after another flits through my mind. Until…
“Paige.” My voice is barely audible. “She’s the first person I send the scripts to every week.”
His expression tightens. “Your brother has had access to your laptop, too.”
“My brother?” I squeak, horrified. Remembering the curious crowd watching from behind the tape, I blush and lower my voice. “You can’t seriously think Ethan is involved.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t. But I can’t rule it out, either. Do you understand? You actually can’t help with this investigation, because I can’t ask you to suspect your best friend—or your family.”
I exhale, ready to protest some more.
“Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Did that come out as a question? Because it wasn’t.”
We fall into a comfortable pace past the small crowd, an awkward silence lingering between us. I just know he’s about to bring up the situation between us, and frankly, I’m not in the mood for it. “Ethan… he’s staying at my place.”
“He is?”
“Yeah. We talked, and I saw a lawyer. He thinks we might have grounds for an emergency hearing. To fight for custody.”
He bumps his shoulder against mine. “What? That’s amazing.”
I guess Rafael was right. He’d said I should tell Ethan the truth about our grandparents. “I just hope I know what I’m doing.”
“You don’t.” When I whine, he laughs. “You don’t! But that’s okay. You’ll figure it out together. All Ethan wants is a chance to do that.”
I guess he’s right. I guess that’s all I want, too.
He opens the small gate that leads into my front yard, and I’m about to thank him when I notice a box on my porch. Weird. The postman knows not to leave stuff unattended outside, with the way Sherlock likes to destroy cardboard.
“Did you buy something?” Rafael is in front of me before I can take a step.
“No.” I follow, my heartbeat spiking at the tension radiating from him. What does he think is in there? “Rafael?” I call, catching up to him just as he crouches by the box. His hand, poised to lift the first flap, hesitates when he turns to me.
“Scarlett, step back.”
He thinks there’s something bad in there. Something dangerous or traumatizing, like a severed hand or some other type of creepy message.
Before Rafael can stop me, I step up and pull the first flap open.
The smell hits me first—cloying and metallic. It’s dark inside, but the red, sticky substance is unmistakable. And the black fur.
“Don’t.” Rafael’s hand wraps around my arm, yanking me back.
His body is solid behind me like an unyielding wall, and the cold leather of his jacket presses against the bare skin of my arms, sending an electric jolt through me.
My breath hitches, ragged and shallow, catching on the rising tide of panic that claws at my throat.
Sherlock has been gone all night, hasn’t he?
I’ve been so caught up with everything that I didn’t realize he hadn’t slept in my bed.
“Sherlock?” My eyes are unseeing as Rafael breathes hard in my ear. “Is that Sherlock?”
“Roooo.”
Both our heads snap to the side. Perched on the railing, Sherlock sits, his usual disgruntled expression in place, tail sinuously twitching behind him.
“Oh, you stupid cat,” Rafael grumbles, the tension draining from his body as he leans against me. I can’t tell if I’m holding him up or if he’s holding me up, or if we’ve somehow become the perfect mess of relief propping each other up.
He lets me go slowly, hands dropping to his sides with a reluctant drag against my arms. I take an unsteady step forward, sucking in a shaky breath, then I turn to look at him.
He’s watching me, eyes dark, chest rising and falling like he’s run a marathon. He lifts a hand, hesitating for just a heartbeat before the back of his finger grazes my cheek—light as a sigh. “You okay, Freckles?”
“I thought…” My voice wavers. “I really, really thought…”
“I know.”
It looks like he’s about to say something—something I’m not ready to hear, so I pick Sherlock up and give him a smooch.
Rafael opens the other flap of the box. “It’s a plush toy,” he announces. “And blood—animal, I hope.”
Letting Sherlock down, I cross my arms. “So it’s a message.”
“And the message is ‘Stay the fuck out of this,’ ” he says, holding up the decapitated black plush cat.
Even with Sherlock safe at my feet, the sight of it makes me queasy. I don’t care what Rafael thinks, my brother would never do this. Paige, Theo—they know how much I love this cat.
But whoever did do this?
They’ve messed with the wrong cat lady.