Chapter 4 Lottie #2
As if on cue, screams erupt from somewhere outside, and sirens wail in the distance, growing closer by the second.
I’m about to continue building my defense and my case for remaining on the grounds when a shower of tiny blue stars sparkle to my right, followed by an ethereal glow that has nothing to do with Vivienne’s expensive lighting.
Blue-tinged feathers shimmer in the air, and then—because my life has fully departed from any semblance of normal—the ghost of a peacock materializes in full glorious plumage.
The bird is both magnificent and impossible as its tail feathers spread in an iridescent fan of blues and greens that shouldn’t exist outside of a fever dream. It hops toward the sofa with surprising delicacy for a dead bird, stops just shy of the butcher knife, and offers me a knowing glance.
The knife!
My breath catches as I fumble for my phone and snap a quick picture of the knife’s position before I lose my nerve.
“Are you insane?” Ivy’s hand clamps around my upper arm. “This is a crime scene, not your Insta-Pictures feed!”
She practically hauls me toward the door, and Carlotta stumbles after us.
“Easy there, Detective Long Legs,” Carlotta shouts. “We’re cooperating! No need to get handsy! Or leggy!”
Ivy shoves us both into the swelling crowd outside, where half of Honey Hollow has apparently gathered to gawk at Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke’s front lawn as if it’s the main event at a county fair.
Noah appears beside me and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Lottie, Everett is right. Get the kids and get home. The sun is starting to set. I’ve got it from here.”
The concern bleeding through his face pains me, so I do the only thing I can—concede.
“I will,” I say just below a whisper.
Everett is already moving through the crowd toward where Mom magically has the twins in their stroller and Lyla Nell perched on her hip.
In a blur of events, Noah shuttles Carlotta and me out front while Everett loads everyone into the minivan with a ruthless efficiency you’d expect from someone who wrangles courtroom criminals for a living.
Carlotta climbs into the passenger seat, still muttering about Detective Long Legs and something about a banana hammock, too.
Everett appears at my window. “I’ve got my car here, I’ll follow you home.”
It’s not a question. It rarely is with him.
And let’s be honest, I’m always here for any directions he likes to give, especially in the bedroom.
Although right about now, I wish he hadn’t given any because I’d hate to think there might have been a clue I didn’t catch while I was being tossed out of the crime scene.
I pull out of Vivienne’s circular drive just as uniformed deputies swarm the property like ants at a particularly tragic picnic.
“I can’t believe they basically chased me off the property,” I growl. “I’m the one who found her. And I think we all know who’s going to solve this case.”
Lyla Nell claps in her car seat and sings bye-bye as she waves to the mansion in our wake.
Carlotta snorts my way. “To be fair, you do have a certain track record. At this point, you’re basically a mobile crime scene, Lot. We should get you one of those Caution: Wet Floor signs, but for corpses.”
“I guess you know what to get me for Christmas,” I say as I spot Everett’s headlights behind us, steady and reassuring.
We drive through town listening to Lyla Nell humming and the boys cooing to themselves in a language I’m convinced they both fully understand.
We’re about a block from home when I’m forced to slow down due to a cluster of teenage boys scattered across someone’s lawn as if a football game just let out.
There might be fifty of them if there aren’t a hundred, and I’m half afraid one of them will dart out into the street in front of me.
Music thumps so loud the bass vibrates through the minivan’s floorboards, competing with my already frazzled nerves.
Red Solo cups are scattered like confetti, each one of those boys has a hoodie pulled over their heads, and vape clouds hang in the twilight air like a bona fide fogbank.
This is quite the teen scene, and I’m guessing the party of the year.
“Looks like someone’s having a rager,” I say with a sigh as I wonder if I’ll be able to hear the thumping and bumping from my living room since my own home is practically a straight line up the hill as the crow flies.
Carlotta perks up. “Teenage boys and noise. Name a more iconic duo. I’ll wait.”
I’m about to respond with something witty about corpses and my presence when one of the boys winds up like he’s auditioning for the major leagues.
Within seconds, a projectile hits my windshield with a sharp CRACK.
I jerk the wheel reflexively, and my tires screech against the asphalt.
The minivan swerves hard, too hard, and suddenly we’re tilting, and everything is facing the wrong direction.
Carlotta and I scream in unison.
The twins wail from the backseat while Lyla Nell laughs with glee.
Everett’s horn blares behind us, loud and desperate.
And the last thing I think before everything goes sideways is that I really, really should have just stayed home and made cookies instead.