The search results load and my stomach drops.
Article after article. All saying the same thing.
“Oh wow.” I look up at Mackenzie. “I think I know who killed those women—and why.”
CHAPTER 19
The fireworks are minutes away from starting. The beach is packed wall-to-wall with people, the ocean’s gone dark and churning, and the sky’s that deep indigo color that means night has officially arrived even if nobody’s ready to admit it yet.
String lights and tiki torches are doing their best to keep the party lit, but the edges of the beach are slipping into shadow.
I’m standing near the VIP tent with Mackenzie when it hits me.
Fifty thousand dollars.
I gave Sloane Fletcher-Ramsey a fifty-thousand-dollar check this morning for a sunroom deposit.
My stomach drops.
“Mackenzie.” My voice comes out tight.
She turns, champagne flute halfway to her lips. “What?”
“I need to tell you something. About Sloane.”
She lowers her glass. “What about her?”
I pull out my phone and show her the search results Ipulled up ten minutes ago. Page after page of Better Business Bureau complaints. News articles about fraud. Victim testimonials—people who paid deposits and never saw contractors again. Shoddy work. Subcontractors left unpaid.
That gorgeous project for the Hendersons over in Rolling Oaks? They’re suing her, too. I can’t believe I didn’t do my due diligence before forking over that much cash.
“Fletcher-Ramsey Luxury Renovations is a scam,” I say quietly. “And Brittany was investigating them. There’s an article from three weeks ago—she was building a case.”
Mackenzie’s eyes go wide. “You think Sloane?—”
“I think Brittany found out Sloane and Travis were running a fraud operation. I think she threatened to expose them. And I think Sloane killed her to shut her up.”
“And Tamsin?”
“Tamsin knew. Or suspected. And Sloane couldn’t risk her talking.”
Mackenzie stares at me. “And now I’m going to kill someone.”
“Don’t you dare,” I growl at her.
I scan the VIP section. Sloane’s standing near the boulders at the edge of the beach, away from the crowd, where the music fades and the tiki torches don’t quite reach. She’s relaxed, elegant in her white sundress, champagne glass in hand.
“There,” I say, nodding toward her.
Mackenzie follows my gaze. “Let’s go.”
We start walking—not charging, not running—just heading over like we’re joining her for a casual chat.
Thepets fall into step behind us.
Where are we going?Fish asks, weaving between legs with feline grace.
To talk to the naughty nitwit,Biscuit Gravy announces.That’s what Georgie has nicknamed the killer.
