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"As things stand right now, we have no idea. But you can trust that I will be keeping a close eye on this one. Things seem to be getting interesting. And I can only pray that this means we are some steps closer to bringing Shelley Shannon home. Hopefully, alive and well.
"That is it for me today. I hope I will see some of you guys at the Murder Mystery party tonight. I will be posting my usual video tomorrow morning. Until then, stay safe and I will catch you all next time."
Chapter Three
Poppy
The general safety rule I lived by was simple.
Men were dangerous.
No, of course, not "all men," as they like to bemoan on every comment section about women sharing their stories, but you know, a fair portion of them. And especially those who call you by your name, and approach you on the street.
Those men could very well be dangerous.
This particular man could easily be dangerous.
Why then, when I lived by such an iron-clad rule, was I curious if he would be at the party?
Anyone who saw me as I walked up the front path to the coffee shop near the shore would notice the way my eyes scanned the parking lot. Maybe they thought I was keeping an eye for potential threats. But nope. No. What was I doing? I was looking for him, and not because I was worried he might be stalking me. Nope. Just because I wanted to know if he was going to show.
We had a pretty regular crew of people for Murder Mystery parties. There were about a dozen local fans who liked to come, hang out, and test their skills at solving crimes. Every so often, some hardcore fans would travel in from other areas to attend as well.
It was for them that I actually employed a security guard for the event, though I made him dress like a normal person, so no one was onto him. It was for them as well that I drove home a very wonky way to make sure I wasn't being followed.
It was paranoia, I was sure. But I'd been a fan of plenty of people in my time, and I never traveled hours and hours out of my way to see them. So their devotion to me, someone they didn't know from Adam, made me a little bit anxious.
It was always better to be safe than dismembered and wrapped up in someone's freezer, that was my motto.
Our friendly local host for our Murder Mystery nights was a local coffee house located within a converted Victorian home. And hell yes to that ambiance. But the first floor was the actual coffee joint. The second floor was where you could rent out space for poetry slams or feminist rallies or, like our crew, Murder Mystery parties. The much smaller third floor was where the 'creepy' owner lived. He wasn't exactly creepy at all. Just older with horrendously styled thinning and stringy hair that he insisted on wearing to his shoulders around his long face with sunken eyes. He was beanpole thin and almost freakishly tall, but also a pretty chill dude. He just didn't have a lot of social skills to speak of.
"There is our marvelous host," a woman's voice called, making me turn to find our volunteer corpse for the evening, a woman with mermaid-colored hair, and a ton of tattoos named Peyton. One week, she even volunteered to have her "body" be found in the back of her car. Which happened to be an actual hearse. "I wasn't sure how much fake blood you'd want this week, so I came prepared," she declared, drawing my attention to an actual briefcase full of the stuff.
Peyton was a trip.
She'd brought her daughter once who had almost immediately left after learning what the event was. More peace and love and light than her more dark and morbid mother, it just wasn't her scene.
I mean, I was pretty dark. But Peyton took home the grand prize. She'd once loaned me her favorite book. And, ah, let's say it was basically horror porn. I actually felt more than a little sick reading it. Me, who looked at actual crime scenes of actual dead bodies.
"Well, you are going to be killed by a blow to the head."
"And head wounds always bleed like a mother," she supplied, smile gleeful.
"Exactly."
With that, she ran off to go douse herself in blood while the rest of the guests started trickling in.
I stood outside, pretending not to be waiting to see if the mystery man showed up, for a lot longer than I cared to admit. An embarrassing amount of time, really. Which, for me, was a whole ten minutes. Longer than I would ever typically wait for a guy.
Frustrated with myself, I shook off the strange twinge of disappointment, turned, and made my way up the deck and into the coffee house. I ordered the first of what was sure to be many iced mocha lattes—with an extra shot—then made my way up the stairs to the second floor.
