Thoughts begin filtering through from the crowd—sharp, bitter, and laced with things people would never say out loud.
There she lies, looking like the cold-hearted monster she always was. I guess the mask has finally come off.
She’s gone,another voice says, trembling.I can’t believe this is real.
Here’s hoping all my troubles are gone along with her.A third voice—lower, harder to place—sounds off. I scan the crowd but can’t pinpoint who it belongs to. And whether it’s a man or a woman, I can’t tell. If I’m not standing right in frontof them, there’s no way to know.Finally, we all have something we can celebrate.
And to think we have Mackenzie Woods to thank for this joyous occasion.Then another, dripping with satisfaction.
Clearly not the killer. But clearly no friend of Brittany’s either.
I’m so glad she’s dead.This one comes through, crystal clear, triumphant.And I’m so glad I did the deed myself. Three cheers for me. And what the heck—one cheer for Brittany for looking so stunning as she poses for her final picture—all by her selfish self.
My blood runs cold.
As if on cue, every cell phone in the vicinity starts snapping pictures, recording video, capturing this moment from every possible angle.
I look at the crowd, at the faces, at the people who came here to celebrate and are now witnessing a murder scene.
One of them did this.
One of them is standing here with their phone out, playing the part of grieving friend while internally celebrating.
And they honestly think they’re going to get away with it.
I’ve caught killers before, stumbled into investigations that I had no business being part of, and solved cases that should have been left to professionals.
But this time feels different.
This time, I’m already in the thick of it—already tangled up in Mackenzie’s mess, in her toxic friends, in whatever web of secrets Brittany was threatening to expose.
This time, the killer made it personal.
And that was a very big mistake.
CHAPTER 5
The Country Cottage Inn looks like every Fourth of July parade float I ever waved at as a kid—sweet, sincere, and slightly excessive in the best possible way.
The inn stands tall and stately against the summer sky, its white walls draped in ivy that’s been climbing toward the roof for longer than I’ve been alive. The bright blue shutters pop against all that white, and I’ve always thought they match the ocean perfectly like someone planned it that way on purpose.
The inn itself has over seventy rooms, plus three dozen cottages scattered across the property like a little village unto itself. Jasper and I live in one of those cottages, Emmie and Leo in another, and Georgie’s been holding down her own little corner of paradise for years now here as well.
Nothing beats coastal Maine at any time of year, but summer is special all on its own. Summers on the coast are exactly what makes tourists flock here in droves and locals pretend to be annoyed while secretly loving every minute and every extra tourist dollar of it.
Inside, the white marble reception counter gleams againstthe distressed gray wood floors that have survived decades of luggage wheels and sandy feet. The wrought iron staircase sweeps up to the left like something out of a seaside manor, and to the right, a wall of bay windows lines the grand hall, flooding the space with light that makes everything feel bigger and brighter than it actually is.
And quite possibly safer.
I push Ella’s stroller through the front entrance and immediately get hit with the scent of sugar cookies, fresh lemon polish, and something floral that’s probably supposed to smell like freedom but mostly just smells expensive.
Red, white, and blue bunting drapes across every available surface—the registration desk, the grand staircase, the enormous chandelier that’s currently sporting what appears to be a light-up bald eagle.
Miniature American flags sprout from every vase and planter like some kind of patriotic invasion, and someone—probably Nessa—has arranged the guest information pamphlets into a star pattern on the coffee table. The ceiling fans are working overtime against the summer heat, and through the open French doors leading to the back lawn, I can hear the rhythmic thwack of someone setting up what I’m guessing is either a croquet course or a small militia training ground.
Honestly, with this crowd, it could go either way.
Someone’s been shopping at the Spirit of America superstore,Fish mewls from her perch on top of the diaper bag.And they have questionable taste.
