2. The Romeo and Juliet Killer #2
But Fate is watching the walls, watching things I cannot see. She is holding something back, and for once, the smartest thing I can do is let her.
Mercer wants the stage lights adjusted, which becomes a negotiation with a trembling teenager who looks ready to return adulthood unopened.
“No dramatic gels,” Mercer snaps.
“The blue wash is preset.”
“I am examining dead bodies, not auditioning for an undersea musical.”
Fate makes a quiet sound behind me. I do not look; the room has too many ways to go wrong.
I step off the stage and scan the front rows. Officers are moving aisle by aisle, collecting names and seat numbers. Some cooperate with stunned politeness. Others argue in whispers. A few cry openly.
In the front row, Alistair Hawthorne and Anneliese Waldmann stand too close together, speaking too quietly.
Not comforting each other. Conspiring would be the uncharitable word, and in Everwilde, the uncharitable word is usually accurate.
Anneliese’s gaze keeps flicking from the stage to the portraits along the side wall. I move closer without appearing to.
Her voice reaches my wolf ears in fragments.
“Not again.”
Alistair answers too low for the whole sentence, but I catch,“—too public.”
Her fingers knot together. “If the walls heard—”
Alistair sees me, and the mayoral mask returns so swiftly it is almost impressive.
“Detective Wolfe,” he says. “A terrible night.”
“Yes.”
His brows lift. “Only yes?”
“I am conserving adjectives.”
“Wise. Tragedy attracts too many of them.”
I glance at the stage, then back to them. “What did you mean by not again?”
Alistair’s expression does not change.
Anneliese’s does. Tiny movement. A flinch at the mouth.
Alistair answers for both of them. “Everwilde has seen public violence before.”
“Recently, yes. That is not what she meant.”
Alistair’s hand shifts, a silent warning or comfort. I look at his hand, then his face.
He removes it.
Good.
Anneliese folds her arms beneath her coat. “I meant only that violence in a public room changes the room. It lingers. In the wood. In the paintings. In the people who saw it.”
“Poetic.”
“I am a painter.”
“And a witch,” I whisper.
The word lands quietly, enough for both of them to understand I am not pretending we are only discussing art.
Alistair’s smile turns faintly rueful. “We are all many things in Everwilde.”
“Yes. And tonight two humans are dead in a way that disturbed Fate’s magic before anyone touched the stage.”
That breaks something in Anneliese’s composure.
“Fate saw it?”
Alistair’s attention sharpens. “What did she see?”
“Interesting,” I say. “That you both know she might have seen something worth asking about.”
Silence settles between us.
Anneliese looks past me toward Fate.
I shift half a step, putting myself in her line of sight.
Alistair notices. “Protective, Detective?”
“Observant, Mayor.”
Anneliese’s voice drops. “Some questions are dangerous in old places.”
“That sounds like advice.”
“It is.”
“Or obstruction.”
“Take it as you will.”
Alistair sighs softly. “Anneliese.”
“No.” She looks at him now, and history moves between them. “He should know enough not to shout at the dark simply because he has a badge.”
My wolf does not like that.
My warlock side likes it even less.
“What dark?” I ask.
Alistair steps in before she can answer. “Detective, surely you have more immediate concerns than metaphors.”
“Yes,” I say. “Two bodies. A corrupted prop chain. A room full of witnesses. And now two powerful allies whispering about walls.”
Anneliese goes very still.
Alistair’s smile becomes perfect.
“We will give your officers a full statement, but I suspect we all saw the same thing since we were all staring at the same stage when it happened,” he says. “And anything Town Hall can do to assist, you let me know.”
There it is. The public man. The mayor. Cooperation as a polished wall.
“I am counting on that,” I say.
He inclines his head.
Anneliese does not.
Her eyes find Fate over my shoulder, and for the first time tonight, I see something deeper than fear.
Guilt.
Useful, possibly. Compromised, definitely. Not telling me everything, absolutely.
The first camera flash comes from row seven. A bright white blink in the dim theater.
Then another.
Then three more.
“Phones down,” I say.
The nearest officer repeats the order, louder, but the damage is already moving. Fear travels fast. A photograph travels faster.
A young woman near the aisle clutches her phone to her chest. “My sister is outside. She heard someone died.”
“No names have been released.”
“So they are dead?”
I do not answer.
Her face crumples anyway.
Behind her, two men whisper, not quietly enough.
“Both of them?”
“Romeo and Juliet. Can you believe that?”
“Like the Couples Killer.”
The phrase lands wrong because I can feel the moment it becomes useful.
A label gives fear a shape. The public likes shapes. The press uses them to sell papers and clicks.
One of the men shifts. “The Romeo and Juliet Killer. That’s what somebody called it.”
My jaw tightens.
There it is. A second name. More specific. More theatrical. More likely to attach.
Kelly approaches, fury tucked neatly behind professionalism.
“Press has photos,” she says under her breath. “Someone texted one before we locked intake. Local reporters are outside. One guy with a haunted-landmarks podcast keeps asking if the ghosts are available for comment.”
I close my eyes for half a second.
When I open them, Fate stands near the stage, watching the crowd.
Not the bodies this time.
The crowd.
Her face is still pale, but her expression has sharpened. She has heard the names too. Worse, she understands what they do. Fate’s magic lives in connection. She knows the power of sharing.
I look back at Kelly. “No one speaks to the press. No one posts. Document who was seen taking photographs. Get statements fast and separate anyone who used those phrases.”
“The names?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think the killer named himself?”
“Not necessarily. But names do not appear from nowhere.”
Kelly nods. “You’re asking a lot.”
“Just be alert. We don’t want to help spread the monikers.”
Her mouth tightens. “Copy.”
A commotion starts near the lobby doors: people with cameras treating rules like suggestions.
And officer blocks the entrance. “You cannot come in.”
A woman’s voice pushes past him. “The public has a right to know what happened.”
“The public is currently sitting in my crime scene,” I say as I step in. “That is already more involvement than I prefer.”
The reporter at the threshold is Clara Finch from the Everwilde Tide, rain-spotted trench coat and quick eyes that don’t miss much.
“Detective Wolfe, can you confirm two deaths during tonight’s performance?”
“No.”
“Can you confirm whether the victims were married?”
“No.”
“Is this connected to prior couple murders?”
“There are no confirmed public connections at this time.”
“But you’re not denying—”
“I am denying you access to an active homicide scene.”
Her eyes brighten at the word homicide.
Damn it.
“Are you officially calling it homicide?”
“I am officially asking you to step back.”
A man behind her lifts his phone higher.
I look at him. “If that camera captures my scene, I will make your evening significantly less convenient.”
He lowers it.
Clara’s mouth curves. “Detective, people are already calling this the Romeo and Juliet Killer.”
“People call seagulls majestic until one steals their fries. People are unreliable.”
I close the lobby doors myself and turn to find Alistair standing several feet away, hands folded over the head of his cane.
“Your town leaks,” I say.
“Our town,” he replies smoothly. “And yes. It has always had porous edges.”
“You sound almost proud.”
“Never proud. Merely experienced.” His gaze flicks toward the closed doors. “By morning, every citizen in Everwilde Bay will know two actors died as Romeo and Juliet.”
“Comforting.”
“I am not here to comfort you.”
“No. You’re here to manage optics.”
His smile is faint and humorless. “You say that like it is meaningless. Optics, Detective, are not trivial when fear is useful to dangerous people.”
I hate that he is right.