by Dawn Ius
The lights flick on, blinding and fast. I blink, gather my bearings. The room spins, slows, comes to a full stop. And all I can see is red. Blood covers the stage, so vivid I taste copper on my tongue.
The King is dead.
No one moves.
And then, a twitch from the stage. John moans, sits upright, wipes blood off his face. He flashes us one of those crazy-ass grins, and relief eases the stiffness from my muscles.
Catherine laughs. “You’re not a zombie, Elvis. Lie back down.”
John’s brow creases. “Aw, shit. Seriously? I have to play dead all night? Don’t I get a drink or something?”
Catherine steps onto the stage, the heels of her stilettos dragging through the fake blood. Her face beams with pride over the dramatic murder she’s staged. She leans into the mic, wraps her painted nails around the base. “Welcome to this evening’s murder mystery. Each of you has a motive, a reason to kill Elvis.”
“Maybe it’s his singing,” calls Rick, eliciting a few chuckles.
Catherine carries on without missing a beat. She’s a pro in the limelight, a glutton for attention. “Take a good look at one another, people. One of you is the murderer. You have until dawn to figure it out.”
The music kicks in, and the characters begin to mill around the room. My gaze locks on Anne.
Yeah, I’m staring. So what? Who isn’t? A slow smile spreads across Anne’s face and it fills me with something dark and deadly.
Anne is off limits, but I can’t stop staring. Can’t keep my eyes off of her as she flutters about the room like a damn fallen angel. She sidles up to Rick, bends forward, and blows on the dice in his hands. It all happens in slow motion, one
long
extended
breath.
My jaw twitches. Rick’s one of my closest friends and we put up with each other’s shit—but if he doesn’t stop ogling Anne like she’s fresh meat, there won’t be much of our friendship left by dawn.
Anne twists a strand of hair around her finger. Rick flashes her one of his infamous playboy grins. He’s enjoying this, the role of bad-boy magician, the attention from Anne. Nausea coils in my stomach. The pressure mounts.
“Get a room,” I snap.
Amused, Rick taps Anne on the ass. “Jealous, bro?”
Anne doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch. Why isn’t she reacting? Does she actually like the attention? Maybe I’ve pegged her all wrong.
The air is thick with anticipation, as though everyone is waiting for me to respond, to deny the accusation. I can’t. I am jealous. And that’s bad. Real bad. Gawking at her is one thing—hell, in that outfit, who’d blame me? Thinking about her all the time, yeah, that’s bad too. But acting on that here? In front of my girlfriend and our friends? I’m sure this is how a Stephen King story begins.
My gaze flits to Catherine and the noose around my neck cinches tighter. “Do you think we can continue the game now, or is there something else on your mind?” Contempt leaks into Catherine’s voice.
She’s egging me on, daring me to take the bait. But we’ve known each other since grade school and I’m better at this. “This is fun for you, isn’t it? How long have you been planning this night?” I think about the poker tournament, the easy banter between Anne and me, the obvious chemistry. Maybe I should have hid it more. Catherine noticed. Everyone did. And this is her way of putting Anne back in her place, proving she’s not one of us. “I don’t think it’s me who’s jealous,” I say.
A chorus of gasps echoes through the static in my mind, but I ignore it. I gesture at Anne. “You can’t stomach the thought of me spending time with anyone else, can you? You’re punishing Anne because I like her. Isn’t that why you had her dress up like a, like a . . .”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is prostitute,” Anne says.
The blunt tone of her voice makes me take a step back.
“I didn’t even invite her to the party, Henry. I only gave her the role,” Catherine says, and there’s an edge to her voice that creates serious fear. Liz and Marie slide into position, like two sentries poised for battle. Flanked by her best friends, Catherine is in control. Her eyes flash with challenge. “How was I to know she’d be such a natural whore?”
A muscle in my jaw ticks. Blood pounds at every pressure point. My fingers curl with thoughts of strangling Catherine.
But in the deafening silence, I know there’s no turning back. I’ve crossed the line, put a serious chink in my Prince Charming armor.
Rick leans over to whisper in my ear. “Chill, man,” he says, and squeezes my shoulder. “It’s just a game. Remember who your friends are.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Anne
The defeated set of Henry’s jaw betrays him. He’s wavering, shedding his shiny knight armor and giving in to Catherine, to their friends.
I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet the black hole in my chest widens. Maybe it was a mistake trying to beat Catherine at her game. I’m holding my own, but I’d have to be a robot not to be affected by her.
“You’re so uptight, Henry,” Catherine says, cutting the tension with practiced charm. Her face lights up and competes with the flashing slot machines across the room. Before I can even blink at her change in attitude, she’s giggling, laughing so hard tears slide down her ceramic cheeks. “You totally fell for it.”
The worry lines carved around Henry’s eyes deepen. “What the hell is going on?”
Catherine steps off the stage and walks toward me, drapes her arm around my bare shoulder. My throat constricts.
“It’s a murder mystery, right?” Catherine says, projecting her voice. The crowd mumbles, guarded but supportive. “It’s supposed to be fun. Not real.” She turns to me, tilts her head to one side. Blond ringlets cascade down her shoulder, spill onto mine, like a thousand spider legs across my skin. “I didn’t call you a whore,” she says, and then turns to address the crowd, her people. “That was the jealous starlet talking. Get it?” She drops her voice as though auditioning for the lead spot in a B-grade thriller flick. “That was a demonstration of motivation.”
The room stutters with cautious understanding.
“Bravo!” John sits upright, fake blood now turning his Elvis costume pink, and raises his beer in a toast. “Well done, Catherine. Well. Done.” He shows off one of those cocky grins, shoots me a sick, perverted glance, and downs the rest of the bottle in one gulp. “Now, hurry up and solve this murder,” he says. “My wig is giving me the itch.”
“Better your head than your crotch,” calls Rick.
At the chorus of “oohs,” apprehension leaks from the room like a shriveling balloon. The music starts, the mingling begins, and the white noise of idle chatter fuses with the warbled ringtone of a slot machine in the corner. Henry’s shoulders relax and his jaw unclenches. Relief settles onto his skin and flattens the stress lines across his forehead, under his eyes, around his mouth.
I can’t believe he’s buying her shit, letting Catherine off so easy. I scan faces, desperate for an ally, wishing Sam were here to see this unfold.
Gathering courage, I sidle up to Wyatt, lean in close, so close we’re practically making out. The scent of sweat and whiskey leaks from his pores. The back of my throat burns with distaste.
“Why the sudden rush to marry Liz?” I ask, nudging my head toward the pretend blushing bride in the corner. Rick is working his fake magic on her, cranking up the charm, looking for the whodunit clues. By the looks of things, if Wyatt isn’t careful, his new wife will disappear with the magician before the honeymoon even begins.
I force a seductive smile, trail my fingers along his cheek, keep up the charade even though I want to puke. “I hear her daddy’s loaded.”
Wyatt loosens his collar and sips his drink. The ice tinkles against the glass. “Sure, I guess you could call it an impulsive move. Not that it matters.” He sneers, really getting into character now. “Elvis wasn’t even a legit justice of the peace.”
&nbs
p; “Sounds like motivation to me.”
My skin prickles at the deep voice that comes from behind me. Henry’s breath tickles the backs of my earlobes. His hand brushes against my waist and I flinch as though burned.
Wyatt raises an eyebrow. “Is that an accusation, bro?”
Henry’s chuckle sets my stomach aflutter. No matter how hard I’ve tried to stuff it down, I can’t stop thinking about him. And dressed like this, I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about me. “Nah, I don’t think you have the parts to commit murder,” he says to Wyatt, and then points to Liz. “Now, your bride? She’s a whole different story.”
Wyatt spits out his drink and an alcohol-infused mist of slobber sprays my chest like blood splatter. I resist the urge to wipe it dry. “She does have some impressive balls.”
“And what about you, Anne. What’s your story?” Henry says, trapping me under one of those boyish smiles. His collar is loosened, crisp shirt unbuttoned partway down his smooth, broad chest.
A beat of uncertainty passes between us as I seriously consider the question and forget for an instant that this is a game, that I have a role to play, a mock mystery to solve.
His gaze rests on the slope of my neck.
“Just doing my job,” I say, stopping myself before I launch into a dramatic monologue about my actual reality pre-Medina. How my real life drama is bigger than anything imagined in this room, so much more than my asshole father ditching me, my mom, his whole family, and leaving us alone and poor.
Henry’s lips bend into a sexy smirk. “Were you sleeping with Elvis?”
I swallow the rush of bile flooding my esophagus as I picture John, disgusting, egotistical, slimy John, kissing me, putting his hands on me. But I have to tell the truth—because no matter how much I dislike him, I didn’t murder him. I’m not the pretend killer in this evening’s mystery.
I shimmy my hips and bite my lower lip, flutter my eyelashes, hating what I’m about to say. “The King and I did have . . . relations.”
Henry visibly winces and my stomach flutters a little too fast. “Did you love him?” he says.
This time, I’m quick to tell the truth. “Fuck no. This isn’t Pretty Woman. I’m a prostitute, not a bride-in-waiting. And anyway, what would I gain from killing him?”
Henry lets out his relief in a sharp breath, and we lapse into awkward silence. He snags a beer from a passing cocktail waitress. She shoots me a look I can’t read. I think her name’s Charlotte, but I’ve only seen her once at school—hanging on Catherine’s every word.
“So, I know I’m not the murderer,” Henry says. He taps his chest once for emphasis. “And I know you’re not.” He tips his beer toward me. “Maybe we should work together?”
“I could be lying,” I say. My throat is parched. “So could you.”
Henry raises his eyebrows—twice. Holy shit, he’s hot. “I’m not lying,” he says, and I search for meaning between the lines, a secret message only I can decode.
My face flushes. “Maybe we should compare . . . notes.”
Henry nods, grabs a second beer. “Outside, though.” He stares at me a little too long, eyes traveling the length of my half-naked body. My emotions ping-pong. “It’s smoking in here.”
I follow him across the room, ignoring the harsh whispers, the confused, shocked, and disbelieving stares. I weave through the costumes and party props, walk past Catherine, their friends, and follow Henry out through the patio doors, knowing now that I could, would follow him anywhere.
Cool air smacks me across the face. An expansive wooden deck curves around the side of the cottage, overlooking the thick forest. Beyond the trees, the night is many watts darker, darkest before the dawn. It should feel eerie out here in the silent night, but with Henry at my side I am somehow safe.
“You’re cold,” Henry says. He rests his beer on the railing and stands in front of me, rubs both of my arms with his hands. His touch will forever remain imprinted on my tingling skin.
My adrenaline kicks in when I look at his face, the way he tilts his head and watches me, an expression of wonder I can’t explain.
“We can rule out Wyatt,” I say, finding my voice. “And probably Rick, though I think he wants to headline at the casino.”
Henry removes his hands, leaving behind a cool emptiness. He leans against the railing and takes another swig of beer. The bottle glistens. “Yeah, but since he’s the magician, Rick could have just waved his wand and made the guy disappear,” he says, a little tongue-in-cheek. “Guns are messy. Complicated.”
He lingers on the last word.
“What about Kevin?” I say.
“Motive?”
Henry’s face pales beneath the moon’s soft glow. Music thumps from the speakers inside, but if I close my eyes, focus really hard, I can get lost in the tranquility. Can pretend it’s just me—and Henry.
“Well, Kevin’s the casino boss, right?” At Henry’s nod, I continue. “So maybe he wanted out of his contract with Elvis. Maybe he wasn’t making Kevin money anymore, so he wanted new talent. Fresh blood.”
“Like the magician,” Henry says. He grins as though I’m a modern-day Einstein. “Except we already ruled out Rick.”
“If not the magician, then—”
A sharp rap on the patio window draws our attention. Catherine stands at the glass, motioning for us to come inside, her smile as fake as her sincerity.
“The starlet,” Henry says.
The pieces of the puzzle click into place. We linger too long, savoring the refreshing scent of the outdoors. And suddenly, I want to explain, to make excuses for my costume—to make him believe this isn’t really me. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. After repeated run-ins with John, even I’m beginning to question my motives.
Henry extends his arm. “Let’s do it.”
Catherine waits at the stage, her eyebrows knit in impatience and annoyance. “How nice of you to join us.”
I slip my hand out from the crook of Henry’s elbow, the safety blanket snatched from my trembling fingertips. Outside with Henry, I’d almost forgotten that I’m not welcome here, that I don’t really fit in.
“We were mystery solving,” Henry says with a wink.
Catherine’s eyes smolder. “Do you propose a solution, then?”
Henry puts his arm over my shoulder. I stiffen, relax. Melt under his touch. “Yes, we do.” He clears his throat. “Anne and I believe the murder was committed by—”
Catherine holds up a hand. Her lips barely curve. “This wasn’t a partnership assignment,” she says.
Henry feigns ignorance. “Wait, what?” He chuckles. “Aw, come on, Cath, it’s not in the rules, is it?” He looks around for confirmation from the rest of the crowd. Rick grunts. Charles nods. The rest of the room straddles the fence, balancing loyalties. The back of my neck tingles with anticipation. “So as I was saying. Through our powers of deduction, we believe—” He pauses, hands me the floor.
My mouth tastes like cat litter. “That the rising starlet killed Elvis,” I say.
John sits upright, fakes shock, and points to Catherine. “You bitch!”
The crowd hoots in laughter, but the atmosphere is ripe with tension. Catherine silences the room with one look, zeroes in on me and Henry. “What’s my motivation?”
I swallow the responses that come to mind and focus on winning the game. “You wanted your fifteen minutes of fame,” I say. “A headlining act at Kevin’s casino. But Elvis had the gig—and his contract wasn’t up. You couldn’t settle for second place.”
The room falls silent. Deadly still. I wait for the explosion.
Somehow, she pulls herself together—and I concede a point in her favor. “Congratulations, Henry and Anne,” she says, her lips pressed tight. “I’m afraid we only have one prize, though.”
“Give it to Anne,” Henry says, oblivious to the steam rising from Catherine, the murderous expression on her face. She’s not done yet, not even close. I fold my arms over my che
st to disguise the slight tremble.
“Everyone, please, continue to indulge. We still have time before the sun comes up.” Catherine’s voice is light, but she’s not fooling anyone. Especially not me.
She steps down from the stage, her back ramrod straight, her face a mask of perfection. She passes by me and lingers at Henry only long enough to issue a command. “Come.”
Henry follows, glancing back with a shrug. Maybe he’s not taking this seriously, but I recognize the signs. Never mess with a woman scorned—and Catherine is positively pissed.
My feet stick to the ground like Krazy Glue. A piece of me wants to go home, to leave now, before things get worse, before Catherine finishes off Henry and moves on to me. But I’m done being a coward.
Instead, I quietly follow Henry and Catherine to the bedroom at the end of the hall and pause outside the door.
They begin to talk over each other, their combined raised tones causing my head to throb. I should turn around and walk away, give them privacy, space to fight—
To make up.
“Why are you always defending her?”
Henry’s voice raises an octave. “Why can’t you just leave her alone?”
Catherine scoffs. “Why can’t you?”
Henry releases a strangled cry. Something slams against the wall—a fist?—and I jump. I chew on my fingernail, debating, weighing the pros and cons of going in, staying out, walking away from the party, from all of this—
From Henry.
I step closer to the door.
“We can’t go on like this, Catherine. Maybe it’s time we accept what this really is.”
Henry’s gruff voice is muffled. I close my eyes and picture his eyebrows furrowed in frustration, the corners of his mouth tugged into a deep frown.
“Is it really so much to ask you to stay away from her? You’re embarrassing our friends, and me.” Catherine sighs. “You’re embarrassing yourself, Henry. You don’t honestly think she fits in, do you?”
I strain to hear Henry’s reply. Wait for his white knight armor to clank back into place, for him to defend me, come after me, beg me to stay—