Chapter 42
Dylan
It was Christmas Eve, and we were all sitting around the dinner table, eating and laughing.
The tree lights blinked colorfully, and pumpkin-spice candles mingled with the smell of roasted meat and cookies.
Elizabeth and Markus were going on and on to Lila about how good they had been all year, constantly glancing at the elf on the shelf on the sideboard. As if that elf would decide whether they woke up to gifts or tears.
Ethan sat across from them, one hand on his fork, the other scrolling on his phone under the table.
Amanda wore a red mini dress and a Christmas apron printed with the words “Best Stepmom Ever.” Lila’s birthday gift from last year. The contrast between the apron and her outfit was bizarre. Her fake boobs, heavy makeup, and high heels made her look like something straight out of OnlyFans. Which was fine, if only that was who she wanted to be.
Grandma sat in her wheelchair at the side of the table. Next to me. Watching with a blanket over her legs.
She’d had a stomach bug all week and barely touched her food. Just sipped tea and followed the conversation with tired eyes.
At the head of the table, my dad leaned back in his chair, waiting for Amanda to refill his wine like he was some old king being served at court. I was about to say as much when my phone rang.
Nolan.
I froze. Then picked up quickly. “Yes?”
“It’s me. Detective Nolan.”
“I know. What happened?”
“Are you sitting?”
“Yes.”
“Good, cuz I think I have some really good news for you all.”
I paused. The laughter around the table kept going over the Christmas music.
“John Myers …” he said. “He was found dead in a cabin near the Seacoast Inn.”
“What?” The word came out loud and intense.
The whole room went quiet.
The music kept playing until I gestured at the Bluetooth speaker. Lila reached over and turned it off.
“Is everything okay?” Amanda asked.
“What happened?” I asked Nolan, forcing shock into my voice.
“We don’t know,” Nolan said. “He was shot a few weeks ago but wasn’t found until this morning.”
“Holy shit,” I said.
“Holy shit indeed.”
“Do you know who did it?” I asked.
“Who the fuck knows. Apparently, the owner of the Seacoast Inn hid him there. But considering where he was found and the fact that he messed around with some of the prostitutes, it could’ve been a pimp. Or someone the ladies hired. A drug dealer. He also had gambling debts. The crime scene is littered with DNA of prostitutes. The murder weapon was left on the table, but it’s an unregistered gun, and there were no prints on it. Nobody’s talking. We don’t expect to find much more.”
“What the actual fuck,” I muttered, shaking my head.
