She’s right on both counts. Although something has already gone spectacularly sideways.
I think we should hide,Rookie whimpers, pressing closer to Henry’s legs as the voices around us rise.When hoomans start making those screechy sounds, bad things usually happen—and bodies start to drop.
A breath hitches in my throat at the thought. The last thing we need is a dead body to deal with, and so close to Santa’s favorite day of the year, too. Although that’s never stopped usbefore. We’re sort of accustomed to dealing with the dead, and a homicide or two at the most inopportune times.
“This conversation is over,” Peyton announces, in a voice that has ended careers. “Security will escort you out immediately, Ms. Sparks. Your presence here is no longer welcome.”
“You can’t kick me out.” Seraphina laughs, but there’s an edge to it now. “I’m the press. I was invited to this event. And besides, I haven’t finished documenting all the...educationaldisplays.” She holds up her phone to snap another photo, this one of Diva Divine demonstrating something that involves mistletoe and what looks like a physics-defying undergarment.
I might need to get my hands on one of those.
“Fine,” Peyton growls. “Security!”
Before any security can materialize, Seraphina pivots and stalks toward the back of the lounge, her heels clicking against the marble with the staccato rhythm of a woman on a mission. “I’ll document from a different angle. Maybe get some shots of those charming Christmas trees you’ve scattered around. I’m sure the lighting back there is much more atmospheric.”
She disappears into the forest of evergreens that has been artfully arranged in the far corner of the lounge—towering Norwegian spruces and Douglas firs that create a winter wonderland complete with twinkle lights and enough pine scent to make a lumberjack proud.
The crowd slowly returns to their champagne and scandal, though the tension in the air remains thick enough to slice and serve with cranberry sauce. About twenty minutes of pure unadulterated melee goes on as the women actually look as if they’re starting to enjoy themselves. I see more than afew credit cards being waved at the vendors. They’re either buying these pieces as gag gifts or someone is about to have a verymerryChristmas.
“I should probably find Seraphina,” I tell Henry, already moving toward the makeshift forest. “Before she does something that gets us all sued, fired, or worse.”
“Want backup?” Henry asks, but he’s already eyeing the dessert table where someone seems to be using Millie’s gingerbread houses as weapons in what looks like an impromptu food fight.
“Handle the gingerbread crisis,” I call back. “I’ve got mine.”
I weave through the crowd, past conversations that have resumed but with an undercurrent of nervous energy that makes everyone sound like they’re discussing the weather while planning armed rebellion.
The Christmas tree display looms ahead, a forest of evergreens strung with enough lights to illuminate half the Eastern Seaboard and decorated with ornaments that probably have their own insurance policies.
“Seraphina?” I call out as I enter the pine-scented maze. “Let’s talk about this like reasonable adults who aren’t trying to destroy each other’s lives during the Christmas season!” If I can sweet-talk her into deleting a few damaging photos, I might actually be able to sleep at night.
The only response is the soft hum of electrical circuits and the distant sound of “Silver Bells” playing with aggressive cheer.
I push deeper into the evergreen labyrinth, following the sound of... nothing, actually. Which is weird. A bit ago, I could have sworn I heard voices coming from this direction, but now there’s just silence and the smell of pine mixing withsomething else—something that makes my stomach turn and my mind-reading abilities start screaming warnings I can’t quite interpret.
“Seraphina?” I call again, rounding a particularly large Douglas fir that’s so decorated with gold and silver ornaments it looks like it overshot festive by a mile.
I freeze.
Peyton stands in the center of a small alcove between two towering spruces, her chestnut hair still perfect despite everything that’s happened, her designer heels planted firmly on the marble floor. Her dark eyes are wide with what looks like shock, and in her manicured hands, she holds the end of a string of Christmas lights.
The other end of those lights is wrapped around Seraphina Sparks’ neck.
Seraphina lies motionless on the floor, her platinum hair fanned out against the dark marble, her designer glasses askew, her cold gray eyes now seeing nothing at all. The Christmas lights around her throat continue to blink in festive red and green, creating a macabre light show that would be beautiful if it weren’t so horrifying.
The string of lights in Peyton’s hands pulses with the same cheerful rhythm, turning murder into the world’s most twisted Christmas display.
I drop to my knees beside the woman, pressing two fingers against her neck where a pulse should be.
Nothing.
Seraphina Sparks is dead.
And Peyton Blakey is holding the murder weapon.
It looks likeho-ho-hohas just been replaced withho-ho-homicide.
CHAPTER 4
