Chapter 12 The Seemingly Irrelevant Details
the seemingly irrelevant details [trope]
tiny, random bits of information dropped into a story that seem so minor you’d forget them faster than an awful movie—until they become crucial to the entire story’s resolution
WILLOWbrOOK ROCKED BY SECOND CHILLING MURDER IN A WEEK
“This is bullshit,” I murmur, scrolling through the article from the Willowbrook Whistle on my phone. Mallory Young didn’t have a stalker. This crime wasn’t about her at all. My podcast is at the center, and Mallory just happened to be the target.
“Earth calling Scarlett!”
I flinch, turning to Paige, who sits at the table with our order. “Is everything okay? You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I haven’t,” I say distractedly as Vanessa joins us.
The two of them insisted I meet them here at The Oak for lunch, but I honestly have no time for this.
A second murder that follows the script of my episodes wipes any doubt away.
Someone’s listening to my podcast and using it to commit their crimes.
Though since we’re here… “What did Quentin say the killer looked like?”
Paige drops her head back, and Vanessa hesitates as she pulls her blond braid over one shoulder.
“Same old. Big guy, dark jacket, green cap.”
“What about Celeste? Did the chief say anything about their meeting?”
Vanessa’s brow scrunches. “What meeting?”
“She went to the station yesterday.”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. But to be fair, we were pretty busy. You know, because of the victim whose hand was severed with a machete.”
There’s tightness around her eyes and the faint lines of exhaustion on her forehead. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to deal with something so gruesome, to see the worst humanity has to offer and still keep going.
Loud laughter bursts from the bar, drawing all our eyes. A cluster of customers is gathered around Quentin, who is gesturing wildly with his hands from behind the counter as his voice carries over the clinking of glasses.
“And I said, ‘Not today, buddy!’ ” he declares, miming a stab with his invisible weapon. The group erupts into another round of laughter and cheers.
Paige snorts. “Will he ever tire of telling that story?”
“Nope. And each time, he adds a little more flair,” Vanessa says. “What’s he up to now? Three stabs and a headlock?”
“Four stabs and a roundhouse kick,” I correct without missing a beat.
“Okay, no more murder talk, please?” Paige asks, hands joined in mock prayer.
“Fine, fine.”
“Great! Tell me about Rafael. I can’t believe you didn’t text me the second he showed up.”
I take a sip of water. “We spent every moment together until I left this morning.”
She swats me away, then stops, eyes narrowing. “You mean last night?”
After a moment of hesitation, I say, “Yes, but—”
Paige screeches loudly enough to give me—and probably every single patron in here—a jump scare. “Oh my God, tell me you fucked his brains out.”
“Jesus, Paige—”
“How was it? I mean, I know his dick is massive, but—”
“Paige!”
“Just tell me!”
I throw a sheepish glance around me. Quentin isn’t around anymore, thankfully, but I don’t want one of the waiters to tell him about this. I don’t care what Rafael says, I still think it’s weird. “We didn’t have sex. Wait—what do you mean you know his… How do you know that?”
When she shrugs, I have my answer. Someone who saw it must have told her. Probably more than one someone, too, knowing Rafael.
“Anyway. He slept over because… I guess I was a little scared about being in the house alone after what happened to Mallory.”
Vanessa’s shoulders dip. “Oh, Scarlett. You should have called me. I’m a cop. I can protect you.”
“Hello?” Paige waves an obnoxious hand in front of her face. “You were protecting me, remember? And besides, she doesn’t need you. She has a hunky bad boy sleeping in her bed.”
She chuckles even before finishing the sentence, and I can’t help but join in. He really is a hunky bad boy.
“God, Paige,” Vanessa says as she stands, her chair scraping against the floor. “Can you ever not be on? Give people a break?” With silence falling around us like cold snow, she steps back. “My shift’s about to start. I’ll see you later. Bye, Scarlett.”
“Y-yeah. Bye, Vanessa.”
Hurt flashes across Paige’s face as she watches her walk away. Once the door closes, my eyes are on her. “What the hell was that?”
She shrugs, fidgeting with a lock of auburn hair. “Uh, nothing. We’re wound up a little tight. You know, house hunting.”
Right. I can imagine that’d be stressful, especially with someone like Paige, who never settles for anything less than what she wants. “Still, she shouldn’t say stuff like that.” I take her hand on the table. “You’re never too much, you hear me?”
“Oh, I am sometimes.”
“No, you’re not. You’re the exact right amount of yourself, and if someone doesn’t see that, then they are not enough.”
She squeezes my hand. “Thank you. Now, please, tell me about your night. I could use a chance to live vicariously through you.”
I throw myself into a vivid description of last night’s events, starting with the annotated book and going all the way to this morning, when he woke me up with soft cuddles to my back at eight a.m., then made me breakfast while I was in the shower.
“Scarlett, I’m so happy for you.” Her eyes shimmer as if she’s holding back tears. “And proud—that, too.”
“I even”—I shrug, picking apart a napkin discarded on the table—“wrote an episode this morning.”
“For Passion there was no space in me for a boyfriend.
“Well, that’s cool,” he says finally. “You’re good at it.”
“Thanks.” I glance toward the street, ready to escape the awkwardness. “I should—”
“Scarlett, wait,” he says quickly, stopping me mid-step.
I turn back, brows raised. “What’s up?”
He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous way he always did when he was trying to figure out how to say something.
“Is it true?” he asks, gaze stuck to the ground. “Are you… are you seeing Rafael?”
Heat rushes to my face. “I, uh…”
“It’s just…” He looks away, then back at me, his expression unusually serious. “I didn’t think he was your type.”
I laugh, though it’s strained. “How so?”
“I don’t know. He’s just… not like you.”
“Like me?” I ask. “What does that mean?”
“Look, I’m not trying to start anything. I just wanted to know if it’s true.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Rafael and I are… spending time together,” I say finally.
He nods slowly, like he’s turning the concept over in his mind. “Well, be careful.”
“Okay,” I say, though it comes out more like a question. “I heard about what happened with the killer.”
His jaw tightens, and he looks away, exhaling through his nose. “Uh-huh. Not exactly how I planned to spend my night.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I was just walking home from The Oak, late as usual. I saw this guy coming out of Mallory’s place. Big dude wearing a green cap. Something about him screamed sketchy, so I hung back to see what he was up to.”
“Oh God. And?”
“When I yelled out, he bolted down the alley. I don’t know what got into me, but I took off after him, and I caught up a few blocks over,” he continues.
“He turned around, and I saw he had a pocketknife. I didn’t think—I just reacted.
We struggled until he dropped it, and I took it myself.
Before I knew it, I’d jabbed him in the arm. ”
I blink at him, stunned. Quentin was never particularly brave.
“I wasn’t just going to let him get away without trying to stop him.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Guess I got lucky.” His shoulders relax slightly. “But if you ask me, this guy won’t stop. Whoever he is, he’s got a plan, and he’s not afraid to follow through.”
On that, we agree.
Someone walks out of The Oak and calls his name, so I step back. “Well, uh…”
“I’ll see you around.”
“Definitely.”
I turn and walk away, and once I reach my car, I slide into the driver’s seat, his story replaying in my mind.
I fasten my seat belt and start the engine, but a thought nags at me, persistent and unsettling.
Why would someone who had just murdered a woman in cold blood with a machete attack a potential witness… with a pocketknife?