Page 122 of Heart Over Heels

Beck glanced from the cops to Colette, who shook her head. Then his gaze returned to me.

“This isn’t cute,” he said. “Costumes, fine. Turning the club into a make-believe crime scene, fine. But this kind of publicity?—”

“Beck!” I interrupted, bordering on frantic. “I didn’t call them. They’re real cops. Not… extras.”

He faced the officers, whose combined patience was wearing thin. “Cadavers?” he repeated, like if he said it out loud, it would start making sense.

“You’re going to need to clear everyone out,” said the second officer. “We have a warrant.”

He reached into his jacket and produced a folded document, which Beck took and quickly skimmed the contents. I leaned in to steal a glimpse before Beck exhaled through his nose.

“Fucking angels,” he muttered.

“Sir?” the first officer said sharply.

Beck’s expression didn’t change, but the air around him warmed, like heat rolling off asphalt.

“Nothing.” He handed back the warrant with a wan smile. “Just admiring your timing.”

When the cops didn’t respond, Beck squared his shoulders and continued. “I understand. Either we clear the place or you’ll do it for us. But perhaps this could wait? We close in four hours. You’re welcome to sit at the bar. Help yourselves to some drinks while you keep an eye on things.”

The officers didn’t even blink. Theirs was an adamant, and silent, refusal.

Beck’s jaw tightened, all semblance of civility gone as a vein throbbed in his temple. “Colette,” he bit out, not even looking at her. “Lock the doors. Start clearing the line.”

The hellhound’s red lips pursed in a frown that implied she didn’t like this plan any more than he did. “And what shall I tell them?” she asked.

“Say we’re at capacity,” Beck replied. “Or a pipe burst. Or we ran out of booze. I don’t care, just get them gone.”

Colette dipped her head. “Oui, mon ami.”

“And you.” Beck jabbed a finger at me. “Get everyone off the floor. Quietly. No panic, no gossip, no cameras. Got it?”

I nodded.

Colette went to address the line while I faced the club’s interior. The members of the crowd who weren’t looking our way remained blissfully unaware—laughing, dancing, and clinking glasses under the amber lights. Oz gyrated onstage, and the music thumped on, sights and sounds oddly juxtaposed with the dread crawling up my spine.

How could I tell two hundred people that the party was over and the police were onsite looking for dead bodies? And wouldI be taken seriously dressed like I was? It would have been the perfect gag. Little wonder Beck thought I’d planned it.

My brain stuttered while I stood there, wishing for the help I’d sent away.

Mercer would have known what to do. During the power outage, he’d been as solid as a rock, and he’d looked for me. Waited until I’d come into sight, then he’d fixed my hair and invited me to Bingo. I wanted that now. A boulder to redirect the current that seemed determined to sweep me away.

I was still thinking of him when Callum and Colt wandered up, flushed and sweaty in their Professor Plum and Mister Peacock costumes.

“What’s goin’ on?” Colt asked, looking toward where the policemen and Beck loitered in the entry.

“Why are there c-c-cops here?” Callum stammered.

“It’s a murder mystery,” I replied weakly.

“Yeah, we know.” Colt tugged on the sleeve of his blue satin jacket. “That’s why we got all dressed up. I meant why’s the goddamn PD holdin’ up the line? Or are those costumes too?”

“We have to close the club,” I told him, voice wavering. “Again.”

Turning aside, I pressed my fingers to my temple, trying to vent off enough thoughts to make room for logic.

“Did I manifest this?” I mumbled. “Am I dreaming?” I set one foot down in a decisive stomp. “That must be it.”