Page 68 of Fish and Chip

Playing a part.

Spent your whole life…

I squint over at the Sherlock wannabe. “What do you mean, playing a part?”

Delora blinks. “Oh, you know how word travels in small circles. Ree mentioned something she overheard. Apparently, Belladonna wrote a scathing review of Eulla Bell’s last book under some pseudonym. Called her writing more sugar than substance and mocked all the Southern charm as stereotypes. Nearly tanked her sales, almost got her dropped by her publisher.” Delora pauses to frown at the float. “And from what I heard, Eulla Bell figured out it was Belladonna who wrote the nasty review and confronted her at a conference six months ago. Apparently, she got very dramatic about it. Something about Belladonna getting what’s coming to her, bless her heart. You know how Southerners are with their passive-aggressive threats. They wrap them in honey and serve them with sweet tea.”

And apparently sometimes with a metal bar, but I keep that one to myself.

Something in Delora’s spontaneous soliloquy triggers an alarm in me I didn’t even know I had. Leave it to Dexter’s mother to crack a case wide open while dressed as Sherlock Holmes and having no idea she’s done it. The costume is doing more detective work than half the actual detectives I know—me included.

The crowd keeps moving, flowing toward the party like a river of costumes, candy wrappers, and the poor nutritional judgment that comes standard on a night like tonight.

The spooky mood music blares overhead as the crowd grows thicker and more feral by the minute.

I watch them go—these cozy mystery authors and their devoted readers, all dressed up as characters from books where murder is clever and clues are abundant and justice always wins in the end.

But somewhere in that crowd is someone who knows murder isn’t a game.

Someone who turned fiction into reality with a metal bar and a moment of desperation or rage or fear.

And tonight, on Halloween night, with the moon hanging orange over the park, the candy, the fog, and the sound of laughter echoing off the Haunted Mansion, I’m going to figure out who.

Because here’s the thing they don’t tell you about Halloween at a theme park—the scariest part isn’t the decorations or the costumes or even finding dead bodies in your fake cemetery.

It’s realizing the killer’s been wearing a mask this whole time.

And you’re about to rip it off.

Henrietta swings against my chest with her plastic eyes gleaming as if she can’t wait to watch.

CHAPTER 18

The Boo Crew Tricks, Treats, and Trouble Bash is happening in the cordoned-off area directly in front of the Haunted Mansion, and whoever was in charge of decorating clearly decided subtlety was for amateurs.

A massive glittery sign arches over the entrance reading “Tricks, Treats, and Trouble Bash” in letters that sparkle like someone bedazzled a threat. The entire space is draped in black velvet curtains with orange-and-purple uplighting that makes everything look like it’s glowing from within. Fake cobwebs stretch between lamp posts, animatronic bats swoop overhead on invisible wires, and jack-o’-lanterns are stacked in pyramids, which reads less like festive decoration and more like a pumpkin cult with excellent staging.

The Haunted Mansion looms behind it all, its Victorian facade lit up in shades of green and purple with fog rolling down the steps like the house itself is exhaling. Organ music drifts from hidden speakers, something classic and creepy that sounds like Phantom of the Opera had a baby on Halloween and raised it on candy corn and lots of screams.

The crowd is pure chaos. Readers in full costume. Witches, vampires, ghosts, at least four different versions of Sherlock Holmes—all women with mustaches—and one very committed person dressed as an entire haunted library, cozy mysteries included.

Fish and Chip merchandise is everywhere. Cat-ear headbands, tote bags, T-shirts, even someone wearing a full Fish and Chip couple’s costume that’s both adorable and grounds for a wellness check. Okay, fine, I’m the one who needs a wellness check after the week I’ve had. Scratch that. After the year I’ve had.

The real Fish and Chip are about twenty feet away, shamelessly working the crowd. Fish, decked out as the Queen of Hearts, has claimed a hay bale, posing for selfies with the confidence of a seasoned celebrity. She knows exactly where her good side is—which, according to Fish, is all of them. Chip, dressed as a hot dog, has stationed himself beneath the buffet table, proving once again that while Fish chases fame, Chip chases appetizers. Everyone has a calling.

They dress as us, they buy our merchandise, and yet not one of them has offered me a shrimp cocktail, Fish observes from her hay throne. Fame is a hollow dream.

Speak for yourself, Chip calls from under the table. A mummy just dropped half a meatball. Fame is delicious.

If anyone deserves a payout from tonight, it’s those two. Payable in bacon and meatballs, per Chip’s standing legal demands. This entire spooky season has not only kept them on their toes—or paws, as it were—but it’s kept them in costume. And by the looks of it, Chip has already taken a few bites out of his.

The scent of cinnamon and pumpkin spice mixes with something savory, garlic and herbs and melted cheese, and my stomach reminds me I skipped lunch to squeeze into this purple catsuit. The catsuit, for the record, has zero sympathy.

Dexter’s standing close enough that our arms keep brushing, which he’s doing on purpose, because he knows exactly what that leather jacket does to me. I’d call him out on it, but then he might stop.

“You keep staring at my jacket,” he says, low enough that only I can hear.

“I’m admiring the craftsmanship. You have no idea what it’s doing to me.”