“You’re eighty-eight!”
“And I’ve still got eyes that work!”
We make our way inside, and the assault on the senses is immediate.
Country music blares from speakers mounted in every corner—something about trucks and beer and heartbreak. The air smells like grilled meat, fryer oil, and something vaguely spicy mixed with cigarette smoke that shouldn’t exist since Maine banned smoking indoors but clearly someone didn’t get the memo.
The floor is covered in wood shavings and peanut shells. Waitresses in short-shorts and red, white, and blue tasseled bikini tops weave between tables carrying platters of food. String lights shaped like chili peppers hang from the ceiling. Neon beer signs advertise an array of booze.
There’s a dance floor on theright where people are line dancing to the music, and a long bar on the left where the bartender’s juggling bottles for tips.
Ella latches onto me and laughs. However, I’m not laughing. And I have a feeling Jasper won’t be either. Ella’s first bar crawl and here he’s missing it.
A giant chalkboard near the entrance reads: “EVERY NIGHT IS TACO TUESDAY! $1.50 TACOS! QUESTIONABLE MEAT, GUARANTEED FLAVOR.”
Georgie gasps. “I’ve found my new hot spot. This is happening. I’m a regular now.”
“You’ve been here thirty seconds,” Mom points out.
“Long enough to fall in love.”
We spot Mackenzie and her friends near the front, taking up a long table that’s meant to accommodate twenty people. Designer handbags are hooked over chair backs, suspended safely above the sawdust-covered floor like they might catch a disease, and someone has actually brought wine glasses.
Actual stemware. To a dive bar.
Mackenzie stands when she sees us. “You came! Thank goodness!”
A waitress with a name tag that readsDESTINYappears with a high chair. “Aren’t you a cutie!” she coos at Ella. “Want some chips and salsa, baby girl?”
“I’ll mind her,” Mom says, settling into the chair next to the high chair. “So you can work and we can get out of Dodge faster.”
I sit between Mom and Kennedy, who gives me a tentative smile.
Mackenzie is at the head of the table, naturally, and she’s standing up with a fork in one hand, clinking it against a wine glass.
“Friends!” She looks around the table. “And... Bizzy. I want to thank Bizzy personally.”I wouldn’t have chosen Tamsin to eliminate, but hey, desperate times call for desperate hit lists.
I take a moment to glower at her for those thoughts alone.
“For clearing my name.”
There’s scattered applause, like I just performed a mediocre magic trick.
“That’s a low bar,” I tell her. “Not murdering someone isn’t exactly an achievement worth celebrating.”
“Nevertheless, you’ve proven I’m not the killer, and for that, I’m grateful.”At least everyone’s looking at her instead of me.
I catch the relief in her internal voice and blink over at her trying to figure out exactly what she means by that.
Blaire leans forward, wine glass in hand. “But we still don’t know who the killer is.” She’s wearing a white sleeveless top that looks expensive, and her engagement ring catches the chili pepper lights every time she moves.Preston hasn’t texted back in three hours. THREE HOURS.
Kennedy shifts in her seat. “What if it’s a serial killer? What if they’re picking us off one by one?”
“We could be next!” a woman I don’t recognize shouts above the country music that just ratcheted up a notch.
“At any moment!” another one cries.
And yet not a single one of them is shedding a tear for poor Tamsin who is still cooling off in the morgue.
