Chapter 37 The Book Boyfriend
the book boyfriend [trope]
a fictional character so devastatingly perfect he makes real-life partners look like they forgot to take the chicken out of the freezer; known for his smoldering good looks, razor-sharp wit, and ability to spout heartfelt monologues that would make Shakespeare weep.
warning: may cause realistic expectations and excessive rereading of favorite scenes
I push open the door to the Booked It office, my heart slamming against my ribs.
The space looks unfamiliar as I step inside. I’ve been here at night plenty, when all the lights are off, but it looks larger tonight. And isolated. If something happened here, nobody would hear it, would they? Not at this time of night.
It’s the first time I’ve noticed it.
I take out my phone, but there are no missed calls. I tried reaching Rafael on my way here, but he hasn’t picked up or gotten back to me. Maybe he didn’t really mean it when he said he was a phone call away. Maybe he’s busy getting settled wherever he is now. Whatever the truth is, I’m alone.
I turn the corner of the corridor, then quickly duck behind a desk. The light in Celeste’s office is still on.
Slowly, I creep toward the door, my footsteps barely making a sound on the carpet. I peer through the partially open door, and there she is. Celeste, standing at her desk, fists pressed into the wood, lips moving in frantic whispers.
“I defended you,” I say as she turns to me and brings a hand to her chest.
“Oh, geez, Scarlett. You scared me.”
“I trusted you, Celeste. It made the most sense that it’d be you—you were the one with the most to gain from this. But I told Rafael there was no way you’d do it, that you’d kill people, all of it over a podcast.”
She swallows, shoulders hunching. “What… what are you talking about?”
“I know about your affair. With Quentin.”
“Oh.” She clears her throat. “Are you upset? Jealous? Because, Scarlett, it’s just a fling. In fact, I plan to end it. And you know I would have never done it if I’d known it’d hurt you.”
She can’t be serious, can she?
“Sherlock’s cam caught Quentin coming out of Mrs. Brattle’s house, dressed like the killer, knocking over the gnome.
And I wondered why he lied about Rafael attacking him, but I get it now.
He never thought he’d met the killer—he used that excuse in case Rafael accused him of being the killer.
Why would anyone believe Rafael over our town’s beloved Quentin? ”
Celeste steps closer, but as she sees me reaching into my bag, she stops. “Wait, you think Quentin did this?”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure he did.”
“But Vanessa was arrested. She was the murderer.”
“Vanessa said she would never hurt anyone.”
“And you believe her? She was stalking you.”
Yes, but she didn’t lie. She admitted she was stalking me. “Vanessa is sick, but she’s not evil. She’s not a killer—you are.”
She shifts on her heels. “Scarlett, it’s me. I’m your family. Your parents were my best friends.”
“I know,” I say, pain laced in my voice. “That’s probably why it took me so long to see it. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? You pretended not to want any attention drawn to the podcast, then posted that Reddit from my laptop when I left it at work.”
She laughs, though it’s humorless, and nervously brings a hand to the side of her head.
“Vanessa knew nothing about your visit to the chief of police, because you never went there. Did you?” My lips twist. “But you had an alibi for each murder. Rafael told me he tracked your car, Steve’s, and nothing.”
“Because it wasn’t me,” she insists, her voice rising.
“No. It wasn’t you who slit Catherine’s throat or who attacked Mallory with a machete.”
She crosses her arms. “Okay, you know what? I think you’re tired and you need to sleep.” She scoffs. “You’re not making any sense. Quentin, me—who’s the killer, Scarlett?”
“Both of you.”
Her brows knit together, and if anything, I’ll give her credit for her acting skills. She really fooled both me and Rafael for so long. “What does that even mean?”
“It means that you’re the brains and he’s the muscle. You’ve taken the most gullible guy in town and turned him into your own murder machine.”
“Scarlett, I’m not behind any of this!” she snaps. For a moment, I can see behind her mask—the panic, the awareness that this is the end—but quickly, she collects herself. “Look, I’m sure that there’s an explanation for all of it, okay? Let’s find Quentin, and—”
“Celeste, I’m only here because I wanted to give you the opportunity to come clean. But I’ve already called the police, and they’re on their way here.”
“The police? What—”
With a shake of my head, I turn around and start to walk.
“Scarlett, wait. Wait!”
When I turn back to her, she’s breathing hard. “Let’s just sit down and talk, okay?”
I observe her. She can’t possibly think I’m stupid enough to stay here any longer. “You need time to get to your weapon so you can kill me, too?”
“Kill— Scarlett! You’re like a daughter to me. I would never, never hurt you.”
“But you’re okay framing me?”
“No, I—”
“But you did. You used my laptop to post that Reddit, you ordered the flowers in my name, you even forged my signature.”
“Because I knew the police would never suspect you! Your dad was a cop, and everyone in town loves you.” Her eyes are desperate.
“I knew they would exclude you immediately, but then Gray had to get involved, and that idiot cousin of his sent you the cat toy. I had nothing to do with that, Scarlett. I swear, I would have never… I did all of this for you, too, Scarlett. For us, for Booked It! We needed new listeners—we needed something, or we would have lost our jobs. Our whole lives.”
I grimace, wondering if she can read the disappointment on my face. The disgust.
“Please, let’s just sit down and—”
I turn on my heels and walk away.
“Wait! Rafael!”
I turn around.
She swallows, dabbing at the sweat on her forehead. “He showed up here. He was on to me, so I had to… I…”
Dread coils in my stomach, so sudden I feel the drop. I can’t tell if she’s being honest, but that would explain why he didn’t answer my calls. Could it… could she…
“We need to do something about him, Scarlett. I need your help.”
She’s lying. She must be. But I can’t walk away if there’s any chance he could be hurt.
When her eyes dart to the right, so do mine, and I see dark shoes sticking out from beside the desk. I can’t know for sure, but I imagine that’s how being struck by lightning must feel.
“Rafael!” I cry out, my voice sharp, as I move to him.
“I had to… I had to. You understand, right?”
Celeste’s voice is high-pitched, trembling with desperation, and when I turn around, I see she’s now holding a gun. My eyes dart to Rafael, lying on the floor motionless. Blood spreads beneath him, and he’s unnervingly still, as if he’s asleep.
She shot him. She shot Rafael.
My hands shake violently as I reach out to touch him, my breath coming in shallow, frantic gasps. The sight of the dark, sticky pool beneath him makes my stomach churn as I struggle to find the source of the injury, my fingers fumbling over his body.
“Rafael!” I call, my voice cracking with fear. “Rafael, please…”
Celeste’s voice cuts through the haze, cold and rational now. “He figured it out, and he was going to the police. Something about my perfume… how he smelled it on Quentin when they hugged goodbye or something. But I need to protect the podcast, right? Tell me you get it.”
“Y-you shot him,” I stammer.
“Only in the shoulder,” she says, like that makes it okay.
My hands find the bullet wound on his shoulder, and I quickly pull off my cardigan, pressing it against the injury, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. “You shot him,” I repeat, the awareness replaying in my mind like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
Celeste waves the gun. “Nowhere important, Scarlett.”
I stare down at Rafael, my throat stinging.
His shoulder isn’t “nowhere important.” It’s the spot I bite when he makes me come, the place where I rest my head when everything overwhelms me.
It’s where I fall asleep, where I feel safe, where I’ve learned what love feels like.
And now it’s bleeding out beneath my hands.
I lean closer, listening for his breathing, feeling the soft rise and fall of his chest. Relief floods through me—he’s still alive. But he’s unconscious, and I have no idea how bad the damage is. I turn to Celeste, watching her blurry shape through the tears in my eyes. “Why is he passed out?”
“He hit his head on the desk when he fell,” Celeste says. She brings the grip of the gun to her forehead, her chest heaving. “Is he not dead?”
I try to check his head for an injury, but I’m too afraid to move him, too terrified I might make it worse. I breathe out shakily, trying to collect myself, then reach for my phone in the back pocket of my jeans. But as I pull it out, Celeste’s voice rises in a scream.
“Drop it!”
I freeze, my hand hovering over Rafael’s body, the phone tight in my grasp, as Celeste takes a step closer, the gun trained on me. My mind races, my thoughts spiraling.
“I have to call an ambulance, Celeste,” I say, trying as hard as I can to fight the panic. “He’s going to die.”
“He has to die, Scarlett,” she says, her tone taking on an eerie calmness. “If he doesn’t, Booked It is over. You love the podcast more than anything else.”
My heart skips a beat, my blood running cold. She’s lost it. She’s willing to do whatever it takes to protect the podcast, and she thinks I am, too.
I have to play along, have to buy myself some time quickly.
I set the phone down slowly, my hands shaking so hard I can barely keep them steady.
“Yes, I get it,” I say, forcing the words out even though they taste like ash in my mouth.
“Nobody can find out you were the killer, but we also can’t let anyone else die.
You did it, Celeste. The podcast is wildly successful now. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”