My mouth falls open at the threat.
“Speaking of businesses,” Blaire jumps in, clearly trying to redirect, “Macy, didn’t you just expand your store?”
“That’s right,” my sister adds with glee. “I added a whole bath bomb section. And sales have been up thirty percent ever since.”
“That’s wonderful,” Blaire says, and her smile is so saccharine I’m getting a cavity just looking at it. “It must be so fulfilling to work with your hands. Very, you know, grounding.”
The insult is wrapped in so many layers of politeness it takes a second to land, but when it does, Macy just grins.
“It is. Almost as grounding as actually having a job instead of calling yourself a ‘brand consultant’ while living off Daddy’s lottery winnings.”
I choke on my drink just asBlaire goes absolutely white.
How does she—no one knows about—Blaire’s thoughts are panicking, scrambling.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Blaire says, but her voice shakes.
“Sure, you don’t.” Macy reaches for another lobster. “Anyway, the stain remover’s right there if anyone needs it. Works on butter, wine, and reputations built on lies.”
Leave it to my saucy sister to give the zinger of the night.
The sun is almost gone now, just a sliver of orange on the horizon, and the string lights overhead are doing their magic. The whole scene could be an influencer’s dream post—beautiful women, beautiful food, beautiful beach—except for the butter carnage and the fact that at least one of these women is a killer.
Mackenzie’s been complaining nonstop. The lobsters are too small. The wine’s too warm. The staff isn’t moving fast enough. The bibs are tacky. The whole thing is beneath her friends’ standards and, by the sounds of it, hers, too.
I’m starting to understand why Huxley looks so tired all the time.
Sloane stands up suddenly, wiping her hands on her bib before removing it. She excuses herself from the table—something about needing air, which we’re literally surrounded by—and walks toward the boulders at the edge of the beach.
Away from the group. Away from the lights.
Alone.
I catch Mom’s eye and nod toward my new mark. Mom understands immediately, bless her, and within seconds Georgie has knocked over another wine bottle—her third of the night, and I’m starting to think it’s intentional—and everyone is suddenly focused on the cleanup.
I slip away from the table, my feet quiet on the sand, following Sloane toward the shore.
She’s standing there looking out at the water, her silk dress catching the last light, and for the first time all night she’s not performing for anyone—which means I’m about to find out who she really is when the cameras aren’t rolling.
CHAPTER 11
Sloane Fletcher-Ramsey is standing where the sand meets the rocks, looking out at the water with a stillness that suggests she’s either deep in thought or actively avoiding going back to the table.
I couldn’t blame her for that second one.
The sun’s completely gone now, just a smear of deep purple and faded orange on the horizon, and the string lights back at the lobster carnage are twinkling like we’re at a wedding instead of a murder investigation disguised as a lobster boil. The ocean is doing its rhythmic crash thing against the rocks, and the air smells like salt and seaweed and the lingering ghost of a thousand pounds of melted butter.
Red, white, and blue bunting flutters between tiki torches, and there are miniature American flags stuck into the sand every few feet like we’re preparing for a very patriotic invasion. The whole setup is aggressively festive, which feels wildly inappropriate given that someone was stabbed just a few days ago.
I walk up beside her, stealth, with my feet quiet on the sand.
“Nice view,” I say.
She turns and smiles, and it’s the first time tonight I’ve seen her look actually relaxed. “I was just thinking the same thing. Though I’m not sure if I mean the ocean or the fact that I can’t hear anyone complaining about their manicure from here.”
I laugh. “The butter casualties were significant.”
“They really were.” Sloane grins. “Your sister’s demonstration of proper lobster-cracking technique was both helpful and vaguely threatening. I’m not sure Kennedy will ever recover.”
