Chapter 9 The Small-Town Gossip
the small-town gossip [trope]
a relentless information pipeline fueled by nosy neighbors, overzealous hairdressers, and the local diner waitress who knows everyone’s coffee order and secrets; in rom-coms, it’s the invisible network ensuring that every scandal, breakup, and steamy almost-kiss is public knowledge before the main characters have even processed it themselves
“So then after the bookstore we had dinner together, right? I swear he spent hours just listening to me talking about books. Asking questions, like he actually cared. We watched The Silence of the Lambs—yes, again—and there was a moment when he wished me good night. A proper moment.” I grin at the memory of him hesitating, smiling somewhat shyly, then kissing my cheek before walking away.
“He even said we’d watch Hannibal the next day.
And guess what?” My reflection stares back at me in the mirror—brown hair falling in soft waves around my shoulders, bangs slightly uneven from the last time I trimmed them myself.
My fair skin looks even paler in the mirror light, freckles scattered across my cheeks and nose.
“He was a no-show. No calls, no texts—I know, I know. We didn’t even exchange numbers yet. I guess I’m just worried about him.”
I pause, lowering the mascara and examining my reflection. “Did he really not go to the funeral yesterday? Is he okay?” I continue, grabbing a tube of lipstick. “Maybe he’s just done with me.”
“Rooo,” Sherlock responds in his most judgmental tone.
“I’m not disappointed or anything.” I glare at him through the mirror. “It’s not like I didn’t expect it.”
“Rooo.”
“Okay, so I guess I’m a little disappointed,” I snap.
And worried, mostly worried. I considered going to the funeral, just in case he showed up, but talked myself out of it when I remembered the way he seemed to absolutely not want me there.
I knocked on his door twice, but nothing, and I haven’t exactly been staring out the window, but I haven’t seen him come or go at all.
I swipe the lipstick across my lips, the bold red instantly brightening my face, and when I see something moving outside, my eyes dart to the window, but it’s just a bird.
Okay, so I guess I have been staring out the window.
Pathetic.
“Rooo.”
Once again, I glare at Sherlock through the mirror. He probably just wants a cookie, but it feels a lot like he’s judging me. “You could help, you know,” I say, standing. “When I found out about your affair, I invited the Walkers over so you could spend time with Georgina.”
My phone beeps, and I grab it from the bed. Theo’s stuck in traffic out of town. I text back that we can record next week’s episodes after lunch, then walk downstairs. Sherlock follows, both of us settling on the couch.
I really should work on my first episode of Passion gossip is fair game when Mrs. Prattle is involved. But I can’t afford her telling the whole town about us. “It’s not like that, Mrs. Brattle.”
“Are you—what do you kids call it? Friends with benefits?”
I furiously shake my head. “Mrs. Brattle!”
“Oh, dear. I went through my fair share of men in my day.” She pats my shoulder. “Had to stop eventually.” With a knowing look, she continues, “Always fell in love with the bad ones.”
“Well, nobody’s falling in love. I promise.”
“Protect this, right here,” she says, tapping her finger on my chest before walking away. “See you later, Scarlett!”
“Bye, Mrs. Brattle,” I murmur, the touch of her finger on my heart still echoing.
Celeste
How’s that episode coming along? It’s Friday! Also, you left your laptop at the office!
I sigh as I come out of the car. I’m so utterly fucked. I’ve tried to rewrite this stupid episode four times, but I hated every version, and Paige, who’s always the first person I send the scripts to, lied through her teeth when she gave me her positive feedback.
I grab my bag, slam the car door shut, and head for the entrance, throwing a look at Rafael’s place. Celeste needs the episode, and unless inspiration strikes, I’ll lose this opportunity. My boots click against the pavement, the sound almost drowned out by the persistent hum of my thoughts.
Then the blare of sirens snaps me out of my spiral, loud enough to rattle my nerves and bounce off the nearby houses.
It starts with one, maybe two, and quickly builds into a chaotic symphony.
I freeze on the sidewalk, bag slipping from my shoulder as I glance down the street.
It sounds like it’s not too far away. My pulse quickens, but curiosity gets the better of me.
I pivot and head toward the commotion, my heart pounding harder with each step.
The parallel street is crowded with neighbors and people clustered on the sidewalk, murmuring. I spot Vanessa near the caution tape, standing straight as an arrow, her blond hair pulled into the usual braid. I wave her over.
“Scarlett,” she says, hands raised. “I don’t have a lot of details yet.”
“Can’t blame me for trying, right?”
“Not you, no.” She glances around before stepping closer, her tall frame blocking some of the gawkers behind her.
“Look, it’s another weird one. The victim is Mallory Young, and it happened last night.
We’re still piecing together the details, but…
” She hesitates. “She was found seated at a table. And… she was dressed in a wedding gown.”
A chill runs down my spine, and I feel my stomach twist. “A wedding gown?” The scene from The Widow’s Veil floods my mind—the bride seated at the table, the haunting setup.
That’s last night’s episode.
No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening, can it? Not again, not the night my podcast aired. Once was a coincidence, but two out of two? It means it’s not just about the books—it’s about Murders & Manuscripts. Someone’s listening to my podcast and enacting the fictional murders I discuss. Me.
Her brows knit together. “I know what you’re going to say, but—”
“The Widow’s Veil.” Vanessa isn’t much of a reader, but she’s a supportive friend, and Paige says she always listens to my podcast first thing every Friday. “The episode about it came out last night, Vanessa.”
“I know.”
“So… do you need any more proof? This isn’t just someone who’s recreating fictional murders. They’re finding inspiration in my podcasts.”
“Even if that were true, there’s nothing—”
“There’s plenty we can do!” I interrupt. “We can check the list of subscribers or… or… set up a trap for the killer on the podcast.”
She sighs. “A trap like how?”
I scoff, not knowing exactly what to say.
But we have to do something, right? This is obviously connected to the podcast, and I can’t be responsible for another murder.
For another victim. What if I’d discussed Last Day on the Train instead of The Widow’s Veil?
Would someone else have died instead of Mallory Young?
“Look, we already have enough people playing hero around here,” Vanessa says, her voice clipped but not unkind. “Getting the chief to even listen to you will be difficult after what else happened.”
I swallow my protest. “What else happened?”
Her expression falters, a grimace like she’s said too much. Her blue eyes, wide-set and sharp even when worried, scan the street before she leans in. “Uh, nothing. Just Quentin—you know, from The Oak—he’s a neighbor of Mallory’s. Apparently, he had a run-in with the killer.”
My breath catches. My ex Quentin? Rafael’s cousin Quentin? No way. “What did he say?”
Vanessa hesitates, her eyes darting around again. “He stabbed the killer—well, in the arm.”
“Quentin stabbed—” I slap a hand over my mouth.
“Shh!” Vanessa hisses. “Yes. And he’s damn lucky the killer didn’t react. Or that he didn’t stab some poor innocent bystander in the chaos.”
“Did Quentin confirm it’s a man?” I cut in, my thoughts racing.
“Yes, but the point is—”
“And he didn’t see the killer’s face?”
“No, he didn’t.” She grips my shoulder firmly, forcing me to meet her eyes.
“The point is, Scarlett, the chief won’t accept any more interference.
Quentin pulling a stunt like that has already set everyone on edge.
” Her hand lingers on my shoulder. “Let us handle this and stay out of it, seriously.”
I slowly nod, but my thoughts are already spinning far beyond this conversation.
Stay out of it. Right.
Like that’s even possible anymore.