Chapter 19
The fireworks are minutes away from starting. The beach is packed wall-to-wall with people, the ocean’s gone dark and churning, and the sky’s that deep indigo color that means night has officially arrived even if nobody’s ready to admit it yet.
String lights and tiki torches are doing their best to keep the party lit, but the edges of the beach are slipping into shadow.
I’m standing near the VIP tent with Mackenzie when it hits me.
Fifty thousand dollars.
I gave Sloane Fletcher-Ramsey a fifty-thousand-dollar check this morning for a sunroom deposit.
My stomach drops.
“Mackenzie.” My voice comes out tight.
She turns, champagne flute halfway to her lips. “What?”
“I need to tell you something. About Sloane.”
She lowers her glass. “What about her?”
I pull out my phone and show her the search results I pulled up ten minutes ago. Page after page of Better Business Bureau complaints. News articles about fraud. Victim testimonials—people who paid deposits and never saw contractors again. Shoddy work. Subcontractors left unpaid.
That gorgeous project for the Hendersons over in Rolling Oaks? They’re suing her, too. I can’t believe I didn’t do my due diligence before forking over that much cash.
“Fletcher-Ramsey Luxury Renovations is a scam,” I say quietly. “And Brittany was investigating them. There’s an article from three weeks ago—she was building a case.”
Mackenzie’s eyes go wide. “You think Sloane—”
“I think Brittany found out Sloane and Travis were running a fraud operation. I think she threatened to expose them. And I think Sloane killed her to shut her up.”
“And Tamsin?”
“Tamsin knew. Or suspected. And Sloane couldn’t risk her talking.”
Mackenzie stares at me. “And now I’m going to kill someone.”
“Don’t you dare,” I growl at her.
I scan the VIP section. Sloane’s standing near the boulders at the edge of the beach, away from the crowd, where the music fades and the tiki torches don’t quite reach. She’s relaxed, elegant in her white sundress, champagne glass in hand.
“There,” I say, nodding toward her.
Mackenzie follows my gaze. “Let’s go.”
We start walking—not charging, not running—just heading over like we’re joining her for a casual chat.
The pets fall into step behind us.
Where are we going? Fish asks, weaving between legs with feline grace.
To talk to the naughty nitwit, Biscuit Gravy announces. That’s what Georgie has nicknamed the killer.
Is there food at the end of this? Sherlock sounds hopeful. Where is Georgie? She always has a pocket full of bacon!
Focus, Fish hisses.
Sloane sees us approaching. She turns, champagne glass still in hand, her white sundress catching the glow from the nearest tiki torch, her hair glowing like a flame.
She looks completely relaxed, almost amused, like we’re about to share some harmless gossip instead of accuse her of double homicide.
“Bizzy, Mackenzie.” She smiles that perfect toothy smile. “What can I do for you ladies?”
“We need to talk,” I say, panting from the trek over. “About Brittany. And Tamsin.”
Her smile doesn’t waver. “Of course. What about them?”
I take a breath. “I know about Fletcher-Ramsey. The fraud complaints. The investigations. And I know Brittany was building a case against you.”
For just a second, something flickers across her face. Then the smile returns, far cooler than it was before.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She lifts her glass like she’s toasting us.
“Yes, you do,” Mackenzie says. “And so did Tamsin. That’s why you killed her, too.”
Sloane laughs like we just told her the most ridiculous joke she’s ever heard. “You think I killed them?” She shakes her head, still smiling. “That’s quite an accusation, ladies.”
BOOM.
The sky detonates into a low rumble. The first firework explodes overhead—a massive red burst that paints Sloane’s face crimson and makes the entire beach gasp and cheer in unison.
The music swells from the speakers, something patriotic and bombastic, and every single person in Cider Cove turns to watch the sky light up.
We’re alone out here by the boulders with a killer, and no one is paying attention.
Perfect.
“We know what you did,” I say.
Sloane sips her champagne. “Do you? How enlightening. Please share.”
BOOM.
White fireworks cascade across the sky, sparkling down like rain.
“Brittany was investigating your business,” Mackenzie says, and her voice is steadier than I expected. “Your scam.”
“That’s quite an accusation.” Sloane’s expression doesn’t falter. She’s still calm, still very much in control.
She’s standing too still, Fish mewls, circling Sloane’s feet. Hoomans who stand this still are either predators or prey.
Should we bite her now? Biscuit Gravy asks.
Wait for the signal, Sherlock says.
All three of them are crouched, ready, and I’ve never been more grateful for backup that weighs less than thirty pounds combined.
“Brittany found the complaints, didn’t she?
” I ask. “Forty clients you scammed. Deposits taken, work never finished, subcontractors left unpaid. You and Travis collected over two million dollars from people who trusted you. There were articles that stated as much. You’re already under investigation. ”
Sloane shrugs. “They were business disputes. It happens all the time.”
BOOM.
Blue fireworks spread across the sky in concentric circles and the crowd gives a collective ooh.
“Not business disputes,” Mackenzie cuts in. “Fraud. You take fifty to sixty percent deposits upfront, do minimal work that fails inspections, then walk away. You leave subcontractors high and dry so they can’t sue you—they never get paid either.”
I nod. “And you use the money for plastic surgery, designer furniture, Birkin bags, offshore accounts. You’ve been running this scam for five years. Brittany was a real estate agent. She had access to property records, inspection reports, client complaints. She was building a case against you.”
“Prove it,” Sloane says, but her hand tightens on the champagne glass.
BOOM BOOM.
Rapid succession—red, white, blue exploding together, more applause and cheers as the patriotic music blaring from the speakers only grows louder.
“I don’t have to prove it,” I say. “Brittany already did. She had everything documented. Scheduled social media posts exposing your entire operation. And she told Blaire that she’d ‘finally figured out who the real criminals are.’” I pause. “She was looking at you when she said it.”
Sloane’s jaw tightens.
“Tamsin knew, too,” Mackenzie adds. “She texted me the day she died. Said she knew exactly why Brittany was killed and who did it. She was going to tell me everything over dinner.”
“But she never made it to dinner,” I finish. “Because you killed her first.”
BOOM.
Gold sparkles rain down over the ocean.
Sloane sets the champagne glass down on a boulder with deliberate care. The fireworks paint her face in shifting colors—red, blue, white, gold. The crowd is cheering, music swelling, and we’re standing here in the semi-dark with a woman who’s deciding whether to confess or run.
BOOM BOOM BOOM.
The explosions are building, getting louder, closer together.
“Yes,” Sloane says it flat and matter-of-fact. “I did it.”
My heart stops.
Mackenzie gasps.
The sky keeps exploding overhead, but all I can hear is that single word echoing in my ears.
“I killed them both.” She glares at us in defiance.
“But I can’t go to prison.” Don’t you see?
she thinks. If word got out that Travis and I blew through the money, we won’t get any more business.
That means no more plastic surgery. She touches her face unconsciously, her perfect, ageless face.
Who do you think paid for these teeth? Her smile is bitter as the fireworks light up her veneers.
And these weren’t cheap either. She glances down at her chest.
BOOM.
Massive white explosion overhead.
“So that’s how you could afford all that designer furniture in your home,” Mackenzie says, her voice rising.
“And that mountain of Birkin bags? The luxury cars? The beach house you just bought in the Maldives? It all makes perfect sense now. You weren’t building dream homes—you were stealing dreams and cashing the checks. ”
“You can’t say anything. We’re like sisters, Mack.” Sloane steps closer, and Mackenzie backs up. “You know that. Once you’re in the Pilates Posse, you’re always in it.” Her voice softens, turning manipulative. “We don’t betray each other. You know what happens when we do.”
The threat underneath is clear as a shard of glass.
BOOM BOOM.
Red rockets screaming across the sky.
“That’s why you killed Tamsin, too,” I say. Not a question. A statement.
Sloane lifts her chin like I’d struck her.
BOOM.
Purple spreading across the darkness.
“Yes. She had to go. She figured it all out and was about to tattle. I couldn’t let her ruin everything Travis and I built.”
“You mean everything you stole,” I correct.
But she doesn’t say another word. She simply reaches into her designer purse and pulls out a knife the size of a curling iron.
The crowd noise from the fireworks is deafening. The music. The cheering. The explosions overhead. No one can hear us. And my guess is that not a soul is looking this direction.
“And now, Bizzy,” Sloane says, almost apologetically, “I’m afraid you’ll have to go, too.”
The knife glints in the light of the dripping fireworks.
She looks at Mackenzie. “You can stick around, but you’ll have to keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you. Think of your child, Macky. You need to live for your sweet baby boy.”
BOOM BOOM BOOM.
Rapid fire overhead.
I’m backing up, and Mackenzie’s frozen, and the pets are growling low and menacing.
Sloane lunges.
She grabs my arm, yanks me forward, the knife raising—
“I’m sorry it has to be this way—”
Fish launches herself at Sloane’s back, claws out, screaming. TAKE HER DOWN!
Biscuit Gravy latches onto Sloane’s shin, teeth sinking in deep. I’ve got her leg!
Sherlock goes for the ankle, biting hard enough that Sloane shrieks. This is for trying to off Ella’s mommy!
Sloane is screaming, trying to shake them off, the knife swinging wildly.
Mackenzie jumps in and shoves Sloane sideways, and suddenly all three of us are wrestling in the sand while the sky explodes overhead.
BOOM.
Sand flies everywhere. The champagne glass gets pitched into the sky. It’s nothing but grunts and shouts and chaos. The knife glints close to my face, my throat, and Mackenzie’s arm all in the span of a few spastic seconds.
BOOM BOOM.
Mackenzie trips Sloane and we all go down in a tangle of limbs and designer fabric and fur.
Rolling, fighting, and I end up on top somehow, my hand closing around Sloane’s wrist, twisting, and the knife comes free—
“I’ve got it,” I pant.
And no sooner do I shout the words than I raise it into the air.
BOOM BOOM BOOM.
The grand finale starts up and the entire sky goes white.
I’m breathing hard, hair everywhere, covered in sand, and I’m pretty sure I just lost a shoe.
Sloane roars back to life just as footfalls head in this direction.
“EVERYONE FREEZE! SEAVIEW SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT!”
Jasper and Leo come running over with their weapons drawn, and they quickly descend upon us.
“She confessed,” I say, panting.
Jasper holsters his weapon and helps me up. “Which one confessed?”
Mackenzie growls from underneath Sloane and smacks Jasper’s leg. “It was Sloane!” she grouses. She sounds furious and vindicated and possibly concussed.
“She confessed to killing both Brittany and Tamsin,” I say, still in Jasper’s arms, still holding the knife, still trying to catch my breath.
Leo quickly pulls Sloane up and cuffs her while the pets maintain their positions.
Sloane’s perfect hair is ruined, makeup smeared, designer dress torn and covered in sand.
“Get these animals off me!”
I nod their way and reluctantly they let go.
Good biting, Fish says, licking her paw.
Best fight ever, Biscuit Gravy agrees.
She tasted like expensive lies, Sherlock notes with satisfaction.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM.
The sky is exploding in every color—red, white, and blue cascading down in waves. The crowd is cheering, completely oblivious to what just happened twenty feet away as the music swells to a crescendo.
Leo walks Sloane toward the cruiser as she screams about lawyers, about her teeth, about bail money.
People are starting to notice and phones are pointed in her direction. Mackenzie’s friends staring in shock from the VIP section.
Jasper checks me for injuries as his hands run over my arms and my face. “Are you hurt?” he pants the words right over my lips as the sky turns bright as noonday.
“Just sandy.”
“Bizzy—”
“I know. I know.”
He pulls me close just as another massive explosion lights up the sky like daytime once again, and we stand there holding each other while Cider Cove celebrates freedom and I try very hard not to think about the fifty-thousand-dollar check I gave a killer.
Mackenzie makes her way over, brushing sand off her white linen pants, and shakes her head at me. “I can’t believe we just took down a killer.”
“In the middle of the fireworks,” I say.
“I’m never hosting a staycation again.”
BOOM.
Fish, Sherlock, and Biscuit Gravy all yowl and howl at the sky as they dance around in glee.
Sloane Fletcher-Ramsey is being hauled away in handcuffs, screaming about her plastic surgery and designer handbags while the grand finale explodes overhead—and somewhere out in the world is a fifty-thousand-dollar check made out to a woman who just tried to kill me, which means my sunroom renovation is officially the most expensive near-death experience I’ve ever had.