CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 22
Is It Wrong to Pretend This Never Happened?
Okay, Eleanor, you’ve been here before.
Literally and figuratively.
You need to breathe.
But when I breathe, all I can smell is blood . Fresh in the air like the abattoir I visited once for research. 73 But this isn’t my next steak dinner. 74
It’s Fred .
I fall to my knees, the edge of my gown just missing the spreading pool on the floor. I want to look away from him, but I can’t.
Emma, poor Emma. She’s going to be devastated. How is she going to recover from this?
But also—now it definitely can’t be Tyler who killed José.
Because Tyler’s locked up in Avalon.
No. It’s someone here , at this party.
Because of course it is.
We should’ve seen this coming.
You should’ve, too. In fact, why didn’t you warn me?
Sorry. I’m tired and a bit drunk, and also, there’s a dead body a few feet from me.
This isn’t your fault.
I lean my back against the wall. The smell of blood is mingling with the whiff of bleach that hangs in the air. There’s a bucket and a mop next to me, and part of me wants to clean this mess up and hide the body and go back to the party like nothing happened because that way I won’t have to tell Emma she’s a widow before she ever had a chance to be a wife.
But I know that’s not realistic.
Instead, and even though I know I shouldn’t, and even though I was just warned not to do this very thing by Officer Anderson, I force myself to stand. I slip off my shoes, then walk around the body slowly, looking for clues.
Fred is face down in his tux with a knife sticking out of his back. His feet are toward the door, his arms extended toward the far wall like he was briefly in flight before he landed.
I bend over him to get a better look at the weapon. I don’t know for sure, but the knife looks an awful lot like the one they used to cut the cake.
Is that a message? Or convenience?
Come on, El. Someone used the cake-cutting knife to knife the groom at his wedding.
It’s a message.
Nothing else seems out of place. So how did he get in here? Who did he come to meet? Why are there no signs of a struggle? His back is to the door, so he could’ve been taken by surprise. But who would he let surprise him in here?
Did someone follow him? Did he come in here by mistake like me? Or was he here to meet someone, lured here like he was lured to the basement?
Fred’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but is he dumb enough to answer a summons to a secluded location twice ?
No, so it can’t be that. Whatever brought him here had to be something else.
Personal.
Comfortable.
Because you don’t turn your back on someone you’re afraid of.
A knife in the back. That’s a crime of passion. The knife was driven in deep. It takes a lot of strength to do that unless you know what you’re doing and your knife is very sharp. 75
So it’s probably a man, but it could be a woman full of rage.
Who hates Fred that much?
Who hates Fred so much, but that he wouldn’t be afraid of?
Think, Eleanor. Think.
Who, besides Tyler, would be so mad with Fred that they’d want to kill him on his wedding day?
And it’s then that I notice it. His left hand is ringless. Someone stole his ring? Or...
Oh, no.
Oh, shit .
This isn’t Fred.
My heart starts to race and tears spring to my eyes. Because if it’s not Fred, then there’s only one person it could be. Someone else with the same haircut and build who even I mistook for Fred more than once.
My God. My God. Someone finally did it. They killed Connor .
And I’m not sure how to feel about it.
No, I’m lying.
I’m sad .
Goddamn it.
I need help.
I wipe my tears away and turn to the door, grabbing my shoes. It’s time to leave and go to Officer Anderson and get the wheels of justice in motion. But if I do, it’ll be real. A world without any Connor in it. Something I’ve fantasized about more than once.
But now it’s happened, and it’s going to change everything.
Shit.
Did I say that already?
Connor’s death has me so upset I’m repeating myself.
I open the door and step back into the hall, ready to raise the alarm, and smack right into something, my shoes tumbling out of my hand and falling to the floor.
Someone.
“They’re not going to run out of alcohol, El. You can slow down.”
“Connor?” I look up and it’s him . His tux still immaculate, his thick hair in place.
My heart skips a beat.
Is this relief, or am I having a heart attack?
“El, have you hit your head?”
“You’re alive!”
I hug him hard, breathing in his musky aftershave, and just as quickly let him go.
“What?”
I clench my hands and take in a slow breath. “Someone’s dead in the broom closet.” I point over my shoulder and pray that the tears I shed for him aren’t visible.
“And you thought it was me?” His eyes dance, because even though I’ve just told him someone is dead, his focus is always on how that impacts him.
See, Harper? People don’t change.
“Yes, I did think it was you for a moment. Clearly, I was wrong.” I don’t look him in the eye. He doesn’t need to know. Nothing good can come of this.
“Who is it, then?”
“I thought at first it was Fred, but...” I turn and open the door again.
Connor stands beside me and looks at the body, sucking in his breath. “That’s Ken.”
“Ken?”
“The stand-in.”
“Oh my God, you’re right.” My eyes trace over the body, and I can’t believe I missed the little details. His less expensive shoes. His rougher hands.
Sherlock Holmes, I am not.
I’m not even Cecilia Crane.
“Why would anyone want to kill Ken?” Connor asks.
“I don’t—”
“What are you two doing in there?” Simone says behind us. “My God. Is he dead ?”
“I...”
“Fred is dead?”
I turn around. Simone is wearing a dress in a deep wine color, and her thick, dark hair has tumbled out of the updo it was in earlier. Her eyes are shining like she might be about to cry.
I take hold of her arms. “It’s not Fred, it’s Ken. And keep your voice down.”
But it’s too late. The word “dead” tends to carry in any environment.
“What is going on?” Mrs. Winter slurs behind me. “What are you saying about my Fred?”
I make a desperate gesture with my hand to Simone, and she reaches for the door and closes it. I turn around slowly. Mrs. Winter is wearing a silver turban with a brooch in the middle of it like she’s Elizabeth Taylor in her turban era. Her eye makeup is similar, too, that elongated liquid eyeliner that extends beyond the creases of her eye like a thick black whisker.
“It’s nothing, Mrs. Winter.”
“It’s not nothing. You’re hiding something in there. What is it? And why did she use that word?” She points at Simone.
“What word?”
“‘Dead.’ I heard someone say ‘de—’” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Is my son in there? Is he dead ? Did you kill him? Oh, you killed him, you killed him.” Her voice rises above the din of the party.
“No, Mrs. Winter,” I say. “He’s not dead. He’s not. It’s someone else in there, not Fred.”
“I told him to stay away from you,” Mrs. Winter says to Simone as she strains against me. “I told him nothing good would come of it. But does he listen to me? No. No. My poor boy. My poor son. My love, my love, he’s dead.”
She flings her hand against her forehead and slumps against me.
Deadweight, I think, because I can’t help myself.
But she’s not dead. Not even fainted. Not really.
She’s just overcome by her dramatic self.
I lower her to the floor as the music stops abruptly. I crouch down, fanning my hands in front of Mrs. Winter.
“A little help here?” I say to Simone and Connor.
“She just accused me of murder,” Simone says.
“You seem to be handling this well on your own,” Connor drawls. “I’ll go find...Ah, here she is.”
I follow his gaze, and here comes Officer Anderson with her jacket off and her gun out.
“Step back, everyone. Step back slowly.”
I stand, leaving Mrs. Winter against the wall, and follow directions as a crowd gathers behind us.
Whatever I was hoping to do a few minutes ago—to tamp it down, or cover it up, or pretend it never happened—there’s nothing I can do about that now.
73 I was sick for days and vowed never to do any research again.
74 Not my best work.
75 I know this because of research I conducted on the internet . Not because I’ve tried to do it.