Chapter 7 The Fake Dating
the fake dating [trope]
a rom-com-approved contractual arrangement in which two people pretend to be a couple for reasons that are definitely not feelings
“Look, all I’m saying is I don’t buy the premise.
Fake dating relies on the idea that being single is some kind of national emergency.
‘Oh, no, my ex got engaged, so now I have to show him I’m totally over him by fake dating this guy I’ve hated since high school.
’ Because nothing says ‘I’m doing fine without you’ like staging an elaborate charade involving a man who bullied you during your formative years.
” I bite my nail. “And if it’s not that, then it’s ‘My mom keeps setting me up with weirdos from her yoga class, so the best solution is to fake-date my boss.’ It’s like the entire world in these books is allergic to the concept of being single.
God forbid you enjoy your own company for more than five minutes.
No, no, according to these stories, you’ve gotta have a boyfriend on standby, just in case society tries to revoke your happiness card. ”
I pause just to breathe.
“Why can’t the protagonist just tell her family, ‘Actually, I’m perfectly happy with Netflix, a pizza, and not sharing my bed with a snorer’?
Why does everyone act like being single is some sort of failure?
Here’s a wild idea—maybe it’s okay to be alone sometimes.
Maybe, just maybe, you don’t need to invent a fake boyfriend to convince everyone else that you’re happy.
And maybe fake dating is just a convoluted way to say, ‘I’m terrified of being alone. ’ ”
Celeste blinks, then drops her glasses onto her desk. “Yes, Scarlett. So you said.” She shows me the script. “For six pages. Is that really all you have to say about this book?”
“Well, I said other things,” I mumble.
She narrows her eyes at me and, after clearing her throat, reads out, “ ‘Every single page of this book feels like it was written for a rom-com algorithm. You’ve got the quirky heroine who’s clumsy and adorable, the brooding love interest who’s hiding a heart of gold beneath layers of emotional trauma, and a plot so predictable I could have outlined it in my sleep.
The writing? Filled with so many clichés, it’s practically a bingo card.
’ ” She levels me with a glare. “This type of thing?”
“Yes.” I shift uncomfortably in the chair. “What’s the problem? It’s not the first time I’ve criticized a book. You always say you want my honest opinion.”
“Your opinion, yes. But this is slander, and it’s not about the book. It’s about the reader.” She sets the paper down, her bob following the movement of her head shaking. “Maybe you were right and we just made a mistake.”
“No, wait,” I choke out. “I’ll… I’ll work on it. Maybe it was just the wrong book. Maybe I can rewrite it.”
For the fifth time.
Celeste rubs her forehead. “All right. Think you can give me something by Friday? We need to air this next week.”
“Yeah,” I say, as if it doesn’t mean I’ll have to spend several nights up. “No problem at all.”
“All right.” She picks up a different paper. “Of course, the script for Murders & Manuscripts’ next episode is immaculate. You made me want to read the book.”
“I loved The Widow’s Veil. The prose alone was astounding. And the way Anders Peterson makes your skin prickle—I swear, his words jump off the page and come alive.”
She removes her glasses with a giggle. “This, Scarlett—your passion—is why you’re my best podcaster. I need you to redirect some of it to romance.” Picking up my script, she insists, “Because no one wants to listen to this.”
Ouch. It’s not like I spent most of my weekend working on this. “Okay. You got it.” I stand when she looks back at the computer. “I’ll work on a new draft.”
I close the door of her office. Booked It is nearly empty this close to lunchtime, and Damien seems focused on writing, so I walk out of the building undisturbed.
The sun’s shining and the parking lot is quiet, but as the door clicks shut behind me, an unsettling tingle crawls up my spine, the kind you get when someone’s eyes are glued to your back. I peek over my shoulder, but nothing’s weird.
Shielding my face from the bright light, I make my way toward my Toyota, but I get that prickling feeling again, like eyes burning holes in my back.
I whirl around, scanning the street. There are people going about their day, cars rolling lazily by. My heart hammers a little harder as I hurry toward the car, fumbling for my keys, the sense of being followed sticking to me like a shadow.
“Scarlett!”
I clutch my chest as I spot Vanessa in her uniform, then exhale in relief. She’s hard to miss—tall, with broad shoulders that make the dark fabric of her patrol shirt look even sharper, blond hair pulled neatly into a tight braid. Her blue eyes scan the area as she walks closer.
“Geez, Vanessa, trying to give me a heart attack? What are you doing up here?”
“Just had a meeting.” She points at the bank, on the ground floor of the Booked It building. “I’m on my way to work.”
I catch my breath. “How’s the apartment hunt going?”
Vanessa groans, and I can imagine her following Paige through a million different houses in her tailored off-duty clothes, a far cry from the tactical belt at her waist. “You know your best friend. She’s got a list about this long.
” She spreads her hands so far apart I’m surprised she’s still smiling, then snaps her fingers.
“Oh, speaking of, we’re canvassing your area today.
We’re checking if anyone saw or heard anything that could help with the Blake case. ”
Her radio crackles to life, and a voice summons Dispatch 105. She presses her radio. “Dispatch 105. Heading to the station now.” She turns back to me. “Sorry. Duty calls.”
“Hey, Vanessa,” I call as she walks away.
She pauses. “Yeah?”
“I know you can’t spill the beans on an ongoing case, but…” I trail off, trying to look as innocent as possible. “Do you have any suspects?”
She raises a blond eyebrow. “You mean like Rafael Gray? I know the chief called you Saturday night, Scarlett—I told him to, since I know you’re neighbors.”
I huff out a breath, glad I can drop the act. “Great. Then can you tell me what the hell you have on him? Because the chief had a lot of questions.”
She pauses, rocking slightly on her heels. “Uh, nothing, really. You know he’s had his trouble with the law.”
“So?” I quip.
“So, previous perpetration of crime is the first predictor in propensity to—”
“Seriously? Once a criminal, always a criminal? He was just a kid.”
“I know.” She holds her hands up in defeat. “We’re not arresting him or anything. Why are you getting so worked up? Are you close or something?”
My heart lurches, and I clear my throat, looking away. “I barely even know him.” Technically not a lie, right? “I’m just… worried about the investigation. Did the chief tell you about my visit?”
“Yes.” By her tone, I can imagine Donovan relating it like the latest crazy story from the dead cop’s daughter who wants to play the hero. “And look, could it be a copycat murder based on that book? Sure. But even if you’re right, it doesn’t exactly lead us to the guy.”
I bite my lip. She has a point. Knowing the killer is a bookworm doesn’t narrow the suspect list. “Neither will focusing all your energies on Rafael Gray.”
She hesitates for a moment. “Someone was seen fleeing by one of the victim’s neighbors. Green cap with a visor, head down. Classic. Apparently wearing a gray T-shirt with some type of tree print on the front.”
“Man? Woman?”
“Not sure. Tall and broad-shouldered, so probably a man. For now, we’re digging into her life—exes, family drama. That’s usually where the gold is.”
“Got it,” I say, leaning back. “Thanks for humoring me.”
“You know I’m always happy to talk to you.” Though I expect her to go, she stays put. When the moment of silence lasts just a beat too long, I point at the car.
“Well…”
“Yeah.” She shakes her head, like she’s brushing a thought away, and I wonder if she was preparing to tell me something. Before I can ask, she’s already walking away. “Drive safe!”
“You too.” I climb into my car, a thought buzzing at the back of my mind like an annoying fly.
Though my theory might not help them find the killer, if I’m right and this murderer is playing out a twisted homage to a book, one thing’s certain.
There’s going to be a sequel.
“Sherlock?” I call as the door shuts behind me. The house echoes faintly, the silence heavier than usual. He always greets me at the door, weaving between my legs, purring for attention. His absence can only mean one thing. “Son of a bitch, he’s gone again.”
Five years of minimal maintenance have turned my parents’ place into a skeletal version of its former self.
The paint is peeling, the tiles are cracked, and the distinct scent of age permeates the air.
Somewhere there’s got to be a hole just big enough for Sherlock to slip through, giving him the freedom to roam the neighborhood.
I’d bet anything he’s with that labradoodle down the street. The Walkers have called me three times this month alone to come fetch him after finding him cuddled up with Georgina.
I set my bag down on the side table, the familiar weight of another Sherlock rescue already forming in my chest.
Before I can even kick off my shoes, a creak from somewhere deeper in the house freezes me in place. It doesn’t sound like the usual groans of a tired old home. It’s deliberate. Close. My heart pounds a little harder, my mind flashing unbidden to Catherine Blake’s murderer.
“Hello?” I call hesitantly as I step forward, scanning the hallway. “Is anyone there?”
Silence. Then the bathroom door creaks open, and a voice—familiar yet unexpected—responds, “What’s a Sherlock?”
My heart leaps into my throat before I can recognize my brother, and as Ethan steps into the light, it stops altogether.
“What the hell happened to your face?”