Epilogue
a final exhale at the end of the story; created to offer a glimpse of what “after” really looks like, reward hopeless romantics with proof that love didn’t end at the last kiss, and let characters linger just a little longer in the light they fought for
And that’s all for today’s episode of A Killer Kind of Romance, the podcast where we toy with the line between murder and happily ever after.
Whether you’re here for blood, butterflies, or both, I hope you found something worth obsessing over.
Until next time, never fall for the man with too many secrets…
unless he’s got tattoos and a tragic backstory.
I grin as the podcast comes to an end. My voice goes quiet, replaced by the chirping of birds outside the home office window.
Setting my pen beside the spiral notebook, I lean back in my chair and shoot Theo a message.
Scarlett
Episode is perfect. Still on for recording this Friday?
The next four episodes are banging. I’ve got two bestselling authors lined up, one chaotic influencer who writes fanfic, and a crime fiction editor I’ve been following for years. Sponsors are renewing, listener numbers are creeping up, and, best of all, the podcast finally pays the mortgage.
I stretch, and pad barefoot into the kitchen. The sun’s bright, casting gold over the counter as I pull down two mismatched plates and start setting the table. Just as I reach for the silverware drawer, the front door creaks open.
“You’re early,” I call over my shoulder.
“And starving,” comes a voice that’s not Rafael’s.
I turn just in time to see him toe off his shoes and shoot me a grin. Ethan.
I get another plate, happy to see he looks healthy and serene. We text often, but after having lived together for two whole years, it’s not enough. “Didn’t you move out? You know… for college and stuff?”
“I’m here for lunch,” he says, heading straight for the fridge. “You’ve got podcast money now. That comes with a fully stocked pantry, yeah?”
I roll my eyes and toss a napkin at him. “Help yourself, parasite.”
“Oh, and happy birthday, I guess.”
I smile, pinching his arm.
He grabs a soda and slumps into the chair across from mine, throwing a look at the lasagna on the table. “You didn’t make that, did you?”
“Nope. It’s safe to eat, don’t worry.”
“Sorry. It’s just, I’m still digesting the meatloaf from two months ago.”
Funny. Unfortunately, also true. But I’ve learned my lesson—cooking isn’t for me. “So how’s Jace?” I ask, changing the topic.
“He’s just passed his last exam.” He blushes, but it’s not out of awkwardness or shame—it’s out of joy. He can’t wait to see his boyfriend. “He’ll be back in two weeks’ time.”
“Awww. Look at you. So smitten.”
“Shut up. You should see your face every time Rafael is around. It’s like he shits diamonds.”
I shrug. “I’ll admit I landed a pretty perfect man.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, well. So did I.”
The door opens and closes again, and then there’s a groan. “I hope you’re wearing an apron and nothing else, birthday girl!”
Ethan sets down the cracker that was halfway to his mouth. “Ugh, gross. I’m here—Ethan. Remember me?”
Rafael pops his head in. “Oh, yeah… you,” he says, as if he’d forgotten who my brother was. He enters the kitchen and ruffles Ethan’s hair. “I saw your car out front.”
He circles around me and kisses me on the lips before he sits next to me. “How are you doing, Freckles?”
“I’ve missed you,” I say, biting my lip.
About two weeks ago, Rafael got a proper office—a little place close to The Oak.
And that was after he had to hire an assistant to help relieve him of admin tasks.
I suspect it’s just a matter of time before he will have to bring another PI in.
People travel from out of town to see him—the detective who caught the Lit Killer.
The name stuck, of course.
For the past two weeks, I’ve missed him around the house. Working on one side of the couch while I write or read on the other end. Complaining about how I never use the home office he set up for me. Somehow the arguments always ending up with steamy make-out sessions against my rolling ladder.
“I’ve missed you, too.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses the top, and after Ethan’s groan, he sets it back down on the table and turns to the food. “This looks good.”
Ethan shakes his head. “Don’t worry, she didn’t make it.”
Rafael chuckles, and eager to shut Ethan up, I hold up two plates and wait as they serve themselves. Sherlock joins us, meowing as he begs for food or attention.
Lunch goes by the way it usually does—with banter and chatter and the chaos that makes us the perfectly dysfunctional family we’ve been for the past three years. And as with every lunch since Ethan moved out, he stands right after the meal, says goodbye, and rushes back to his friends and his life.
“He looks good,” Rafael says as he washes the dishes. He turns to look at me over his shoulder. “I mean, his sister looks better, but…”
“Yeah.” I swat his ass with a dish towel. “He looks happy.”
He holds out his hand, water dripping onto the kitchen rug, and I hand him the towel. When I don’t let go, he smirks, tugging it to pull me closer. “God, getting an office was a mistake.”
We kiss, his wet hand grazing my cheek.
“Hmm.” I tug his hair. “The house feels empty without you.”
“Do you feel empty without me?”
I huff on his lips, very much like a dog in heat. “Only all the time.”
He pulls me closer. “Then we better get going, birthday girl. Are we taking my car or yours?”
“Going? Where?”
There’s matching confusion on his face. “The lookout?” Noticing the blank look I’m giving him, he lets out a soft laugh. “The book you left in my office, Scarlett.”
“I didn’t leave anything in your office.”
His chin jerks back. He heads to the entryway and pulls a small paperback from his jacket pocket. The Art of Falling Slowly—excellent fake-dating romance. I recognize it from the cover. “Look inside,” he says. He hands it to me, and I flip to the first page.
Scarlett, it reads above the title. And beneath it: Page 176, line 32.
“What in the name…” I mutter, flipping through.
Rafael leans over and points. “I’ll save you the counting.”
Once they walked past the hill, the lookout loomed ahead.
“I—I don’t understand.”
“Me neither.” His brow furrows. “I thought your name meant this was from you, but—”
“But whoever wrote this put my name before the message, not after.”
“So maybe it’s for you,” Rafael says, echoing my thoughts. He takes the book from my hands, glaring at it like it’s trying to hurt me. “Who the fuck would do this?”
Reminded of how the conversation started, I ask, “Where did you think we were going?”
“Hmm?” He’s still flipping through the book like it might contain a hidden bomb.
“You said we better get going?”
“Oh. Yeah. When I thought this was from you, I assumed this line meant you wanted to go to the lookout by the rails.”
Of course. I smile despite myself. On our first anniversary, we attempted a hike.
Big mistake. By the time we were halfway up the trail, I was covered in mosquito bites and had tripped three times, and my feet felt like I was walking on hot coals.
Rafael, ever the hero, pretended he was exhausted and suggested we find a place to have our picnic.
That’s how we found the lookout—a grassy bluff past an overgrown trail, overlooking the abandoned train tracks and a sparkling stretch of river. It wasn’t even on the map. We ate cold takeout and fought against a champagne bottle neither of us could open.
And yes—I ended up straddling him beneath the stars, jeans tugged down just far enough, one hand gripping his hair, the other bracing me against a tree root.
“What if that is the message?”
“You think someone’s trying to send you to the lookout?” He shrugs. “Why? And who?”
I exhale, meeting his eyes. Only people close to us have heard this story—except for the spicy parts, which we kept for ourselves.
Oh boy, I’m getting flashbacks of the last time we asked ourselves these kinds of questions.
At the same time, we both say, “Someone we know.”
Paige, maybe, or Stella, her girlfriend. Theo. Basically, the usual suspects.
“We have to go,” I say, grabbing the keys.
He grimaces. “Do we? Because if there’s a corpse at our lookout, I’m never calling it our lookout again.”
“Come on,” I say, already opening the door. “Let’s go.”
Panting, I stumble onto the patch of grass. If nothing else, this little adventure confirms what I thought—hiking and I will never be friends.
Rafael, looking maddeningly unbothered, crouches beside me and scans the area. “There’s nothing here.”
He’s right. I turn in a slow circle, eyes sweeping across the clearing. Just wildflowers, tall swaying grass, too many bugs for my comfort, and that breathtaking view.
I drift toward the edge of the bluff and peer out, hoping there’s something—anything—I’m missing. The town stretches in miniature below us, sun catching on rooftops, the river shimmering like a spilled bottle of mercury. The wind carries the scent of pine and something sweeter.
But there’s nothing weird.
Rafael’s arms wrap around me, his chest pressing against my back. “Not gonna lie, Freckles. I’m relieved as fuck. The last thing Willowbrook needs is another bookish serial killer.”
I squeeze his arms and lean into him. I’m relieved, too, though a part of me kind of liked the thrill of it. Since he opened his own agency, I’ve never meddled in his PI work—playing detective that one time was enough—but this… this is fun. The two of us, solving whatever-this-is together.
“You okay?” he asks, his lips grazing my ear.
I keep my eyes on the view and inhale deeply, feeling my back expand against the solid weight of him. “Never been better, actually.”
“Can you believe it’s been two whole years since we came here?” There’s a smile in his voice. I twist back to glance at him. “Actually, one year and…” He looks up, calculating. “Eleven months, twenty-four days… and eight hours?”