Chapter Four
I DID THIS.
That’s Millie’s first thought as she takes in the scene.
Jaxon sagging in the chair, his head slumped to one side, his face beet-red and his eyes wide open, empty and staring at her.
I did this.
Kenzo is saying something, but it’s drowned out by the roaring in her head. Waves crashing over her, trying to drown her.
Just like they drowned Arthur Fletch.
She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding—and nearly laughs, because oh god, what an actual cliché—then tries to take a step toward Jaxon, but her legs have turned to stone, so all she can do is stand and face what she’s done.
“Millie?”
If she had just kept her mouth shut, or at least, admitted that she wasn’t a hundred percent sure what she saw on the cliff, Jaxon wouldn’t have gotten locked in here, alone, like a sitting duck .
. . or a sacrificial lamb . . . Why are there so many animal metaphors?
She giggles, and immediately realizes how unhinged that is. She clamps a hand over her mouth.
“Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it’s not funny, it’s obviously not funny, it wasn’t that kind of laugh—”
“Millie, take a breath.”
Kenzo steps in front of her, putting himself between her and the rest of the room, trying to shield her from what she’s already seen.
Millie feels her knees go soft, and the next thing she knows, she’s sitting on the edge of Jaxon’s bed.
The spaghetti lies abandoned in the doorway, the tray upended, the bowl and glass both shattered on the floor, and the crash must have echoed through the house, or maybe they’re just all wound tight enough at this point, their senses tuned to trouble, because Priscilla and Cate are suddenly there.
Cate sees Jaxon and physically scrambles back, hands to her mouth, while Priscilla gasps but manages to steady, sucking the shock back into herself.
Millie blinks, but it’s like she’s double-screening—watching a movie while scrolling on her phone, missing important dialogue, but this time there’s no way to rewind. She catches snippets of what the others are saying, interspersed with the roaring in her head.
“The door was locked,” whispers Cate. “Just like Millie’s. So how did they get in?”
“Well, someone had a key,” says Priscilla, eyeing Kenzo.
“I was in the kitchen with you!” he snaps back.
“Not the whole time, though,” says Millie. “I mean, I saw you coming down the stairs.”
“I went to get my typewriter.”
Millie looks to Priscilla. “You were up here, too.”
“Sure,” she says, “but I don’t have a key.”
“Well, I’m not a murderer,” counters Kenzo, and if Jaxon were here right now—like, alive—he’d point out that that’s exactly what a murderer would say. The thought makes Millie’s throat go tight.
“Someone stole his pages.” Cate’s voice is soft, but it cuts cleanly through.
And she’s right. The sheet in the typewriter is gone, and the stack of blank paper beside it is way smaller than the one waiting for them all when they arrived.
A bottle of Wite-Out is tipped over, leaking onto the desk.
Jaxon was finally writing. Sadness tightens Millie’s chest.
Kenzo heads for the door.
“Where are you going?” demands Priscilla.
“I don’t intend to wait around another day and hope we’re still alive to get our shit out of the safe. We tried hacking it, but we didn’t try good old-fashioned force. I’m going to get my ax.”
“What happened to not splitting up?” asks Millie, and the look that crosses Kenzo’s face says it all, the way his eyes flick from Millie to Cate to Priscilla.
Because either Arthur Fletch’s violent ghost is haunting the House That Petrarch Built, stalking and picking off the guests . . . or one of them is a killer.
Kenzo storms out of the room, and Millie wants to rush after him, but one thing stops her.
The fact that it could be him.
He vanishes down the hall, footsteps thudding on the stairs, and then it’s just the three of them, and Millie’s looking from Priscilla to Cate, trying to figure out which of them would—could—do a thing like this.
“None of this makes any sense,” says Priscilla, pinching the bridge of her nose. Millie searches her face for any hint of guilt. But she’s good. She’s very good.
“Do you think someone saw him as a threat?” asks Cate.
And maybe Millie’s imagining it, but Cate flashes her a look, like she might be suspecting Priscilla too.
Why else would she have moved to the opposite side of the room, standing against the wall, about as far away from Priscilla as she can get and still keep an eye on her?
Unless she thinks Millie’s the killer? But that’s ridiculous.
A soft click, swiftly followed by an “Oh!” from Cate. She steps away in surprise. Millie gets to her feet. Priscilla turns.
Cate must have leaned back against the wall, which turns out to be not a wall but a hidden panel. One of those spring-loaded ones, like her mom’s kitchen cabinets, revealing a sliver of darkness.
“What the . . .” murmurs Priscilla as all three of them draw closer.
It’s not just a panel.
It’s a door.
“Be careful,” whispers Cate as Priscilla pulls it open, revealing a narrow passage, just like the ones she saw on the model.
“Well,” she says, “I think we know how they got in.”
Millie’s mind starts to race. “Where does it go?”
“Only one way to find out,” says Priscilla, but no one moves. Millie’s not about to go first, in case there’s something in the tunnel. Also because it would mean turning her back on the people behind her, and there’s a two out of three chance one of them is a murderer.
After a moment, Priscilla sighs and steps forward.
For once, Millie’s grateful for the romance author’s need to take control. Once Priscilla has stepped into the wall, Cate follows, which leaves Millie bringing up the rear. She holds her breath as she steps out of Jaxon’s white room and into the dark.
It’s pitch-black inside the passageway, and Millie puts her hand on Cate’s back for balance as they shuffle forward until something clips her left shoulder.
She feels for it and finds a ladder, running up into the dark.
She can’t see where it leads, and there’s no time to find out because there’s another door a few steps in front of Priscilla, a thin line of light seeping from the edges.
Priscilla nudges the door open, and they step through.
Into Millie’s room.
She blinks, thrown by the sudden appearance of her own blue walls, her blue bed, the blue duvet and pillows piled in the center, her clothes spilling out of her open suitcase.
And now Priscilla and Cate are looking at her. As if she had any clue the secret passage was here, as if she had anything to do with Jaxon.
“What?” she squeaks. “I didn’t kill him.”
But judging by the look on Priscilla’s face, she clearly doesn’t believe her.
“Cate?” she pleads with the other girl, but Cate stares back, panicked and a little tearful—a kid caught in the crossfire when Mom and Dad are fighting.
“I was literally the only one who even liked him!” Millie snaps. “Why would I do it?”
“Why would anyone?” counters Priscilla.
“To win the book deal?” ventures Cate. “It’s an awful lot of money.”
Millie scrambles. “But—but—I wouldn’t steal his pages. I already turned mine in.”
“Then what are those?” asks Priscilla, pointing to the typed blue sheets sitting on the desk. Millie’s stomach drops at the sight of her rewritten work.
“I . . . I . . .” She would rather die than admit her first-person mistake. “I wasn’t entirely happy with my first draft—I thought I’d give it a bit of a polish, since I had the time. Not that I need to explain myself to you.”
“Actually, you do,” snaps Priscilla, “since your room is the one with the secret passage into Jaxon’s.”
“There are secret tunnels all over the place!” counters Millie, before realizing that’s not helping her case.
Priscilla arches a brow. “And how would you know that?”
“We saw it on the dollhouse. Right, Cate?”
But Cate shrinks back a little. “I—I didn’t notice . . .”
Which gives Priscilla the ammunition she needs to press on. “Is that how you found the door in your wall?” she demands, gaze fixed on Millie.
“What? No. I—” but she cuts off as Priscilla lifts a blue page from the desk, frowning as she skims, and a different kind of panic floods Millie’s chest. “Hey! No cheating!”
She strides over and rips the page from the other woman’s hand before grabbing the rest of the blue sheets and clutching them to her chest. She looks around, scrambling, then shoves the paper into her open suitcase and slams it shut, spinning the digits of the combination lock.
“Yeah,” says Priscilla dryly. “That wasn’t suspicious.”
“It’s a draft!” snaps Millie. “And I’m not about to let you judge it.”
“Oh, for the love of—I don’t care about your ending, Millie! I care about staying alive.” Her eyes drop to the suitcase, now locked, at Millie’s feet. “Is that where you’ve hidden Jaxon’s pages?”
“What? No!”
“Why don’t you show us?” Cate’s voice is gentle, coaxing. As if she’s on Millie’s side. “Just to put Priscilla’s mind at rest.”
Anger bristles in Millie’s chest. “Why don’t we take a good look at Priscilla,” she growls, eyeing her. Even after everything, the woman is still somehow so composed, as if she knows she has nothing to be afraid of. And the only way that’s true is if it’s her.
“She’s the one whose bags we should be searching,” spits Millie. “She’s the one I caught sneaking around right before Sienna—”
“You’re not doing yourself any favors here,” Priscilla cuts in smoothly. But Millie can see Cate’s certainty faltering.
Millie puts her foot on the suitcase and pushes it toward Priscilla. It glides smoothly on the polished wooden floor. “The code’s 0907.”
Priscilla crouches down and thumbs the lock.
“And I’m sure you won’t mind me searching your bag, too?” Before Priscilla has a chance to say or do anything, Millie dashes out of the room and down the hall.
“Millie, wait!”
But she doesn’t.
She reaches the other wing, flings open the door to Priscilla’s room.