2. The Romeo and Juliet Killer #3
Beyond him, flashes pulse against the fog. Press. Phones. Curious locals.
The story is already outside. Couples Killer. Romeo and Juliet Killer. Names taking root.
Alistair waits until I have no immediate excuse to walk away. That is one of his more irritating talents.
“I have a suggestion,” he says.
“I’m sure you do.”
He drops the charm by a fraction. “The press is watching every exit. If we flee separately, with Fate pale, Anneliese shaken, and you looking as if you plan to arrest the ocean, the story worsens.”
“The story is already bad.”
“Stories can always become worse.”
“What do you want?”
“A brief public appearance. Foglight Tavern. A nightcap.”
I stare at him. “No.”
“Detective—”
“No.”
“The town must see steadiness. Not secrecy. Not panic. You, Fate, Anneliese, and I out together, calm and composed. Business as usual. We let them photograph us leaving. We do not answer questions. We go somewhere visible, somewhere ordinary, somewhere human. The message is simple: Everwilde is not in chaos.”
“Except two people are dead onstage.”
“Yes. And they’ll still be dead tomorrow,” he says, and for once his words have no smoothness at all. “And if the town feels that death was aimed at love itself, fear will become contagious.”
That lands.
I hate that it lands.
In Everwilde, fear travels through magic. Through packs. Covens. Old grudges. Hidden communities with too much to lose.
Still, I say, “I am not using a tavern visit to dress up a homicide.”
“No,” Alistair says. “You are using visibility to deny the killer ownership of the night.”
I look at him sharply.
There he is again. Old. Dangerous. Useful.
Possibly compromised.
Definitely hiding something.
Across the lobby, Fate stands near a carved column with Anneliese. Kelly is beside them, taking a statement while pretending not to watch Fate too closely. Fate has color again, but not enough.
Then Kelly says something, and Fate smiles too quickly.
My chest tightens.
Foglight Tavern.
The last time Fate was there, gunfire tore through a room full of people. I still remember the aftermath. The high, sharp ringing. The smell of powder. Fate trying to be useful while shock crawled over her skin.
Alistair follows my gaze. “She does not have to go.”
“No,” I reply. “She does not.”
But Fate looks up then, as if she heard the shape of her name in the air. Our eyes meet across the lobby.
For once, she does not mask fast enough. I see the fear. Not of the bodies. Not only that. Of being the reason. Of being seen. Of whatever Anneliese wrote on that napkin.
Then she straightens. Because Fate D’Amour would rather walk barefoot across broken glass than let fear look smug.
I cross to her before I decide to.
Kelly steps back. “I’ve got witness intake covered. Mercer says transport in fifteen after photos.”
“Good.” I tell Kelly, but I’m looking at Fate. “Alistair wants us to make a public appearance.”
Her brows rise. “Does that include jazz hands, or is this more of a grim civic dignity situation?”
“Foglight Tavern,” I say.
The change is immediate.
Tiny.
Her fingers tighten around her own elbow. Her shoulders go still. The humor does not leave her face, exactly. It freezes there, a butterfly pinned under glass.
Fate inhales through her nose. “Foglight.”
“We can say no.”
Alistair approaches slowly.
“Only if you feel able. It would help steady the town, but Alistair will understand if you are not ready," I say.
Fate gives him a look with more bite than color. “I adore when powerful men frame emotional blackmail as optional.”
I lower my voice. “You do not owe the town your composure.”
Her gaze flicks to mine.
For a moment, the noise fades. Just Fate looking at me as if she wants, very badly, to believe that.
Then she says, “No. But I might owe those two more than hiding.”
My jaw tightens. “Fate.”
“Also, I’m starving, and if I’m expected to perform public dignity, I require fries and emotional support ketchup.”
Kelly clears her throat. “I can arrange an escort. Quiet route to the cars. Officers at the tavern exterior.”
“Do it,” I tell her.
I wave the mayor and Anneliese over.
Anneliese touches Fate’s arm. “We go together. We answer nothing.”
Alistair’s voice is soft. “And we look normal.”
Fate looks toward the auditorium doors, toward the stage hidden beyond them, toward the old building that has swallowed a love story and spit out a crime scene.
Then she nods once. “All right,” she says. “Public dignity. Tavern scene.”
I step closer before anyone else can move. “You ride with me.”
She nods and takes my hand. For once, there is no pithy comeback or backlash.
Tonight, she only studies me. The pulse in her throat beats too fast.
I turn toward the doors where the press waits.
If Alistair wants a public show of strength, fine. But Fate will not stand exposed anywhere this town decides to watch.
I will sit between her and every exit.
Between her and every camera.
Between her and every threat stupid enough to come close.
And if the killer wanted an audience, he can watch this:
Fate D’Amour is standing strong, and she is not alone.