Page 27 of Kissing Flynn

I wish I’d tried to sneak a peek at Flynn’s before he turned it over to Barnard, but it’s for the best I didn’t. If I’d gotten caught cheating, I’d probably be on the same flight out as Penelope and James. I meet Flynn’s gaze as the others start to discuss where to begin the investigation, and he shakes his head slightly, telling me he’s not the culprit.

And I trust him.

I shake my head, too, and he nods almost imperceptibly. He trusts me, too.

“We should examine the body, first,” he calls out, then climbs from his chair and heads around the table to do just that.

I follow, and it only takes a moment to discern the “cause of death.” He’s been stabbed. I straighten and study the place settings at the table. Everyone’s silverware is still tightly wrapped in napkins.

Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy to discover the killer. And the writers didn’t even know about the game until after the murder, so no one would’ve unwrapped their silverware to make the knife accessible.

Flynn moves in beside me, whispering, “This doesn’t seem relevant to the reason we’re here, does it? It’s weird and over the top.”

I shake my head and shrug. “Maybe Barnard’s testing our creativity and attention to detail.”

He nods like he’s impressed by the assessment, then asks, “Do you want to team up and work together on this one?”

“How do I know you’re not the killer and this offer of teamwork isn’t a red herring meant to throw me off?” I quip.

Flynn chuckles and leans in so closely, I can feel his breath on my cheek as he whispers, “You’ll just have to trust me.”

Eighteen

Flynn

Max agrees to work together on the case, and while the other writers grill each other to try to catch someone in a lie, we decide to question the staff that were present during the “murder.”

Starting with the server who screamed. She was closest to the actual event, so maybe she knows something. As we approach, I see she’s wearing a nametag. Her name is Bethany.

“I felt someone brush past me while the lights were out,” Bethany says with a shaky nod when I ask her about her experience during the murder. “And I smelled perfume.”

“Perfume?” Max asks, excitement lighting her amber eyes. “Did you recognize the scent?”

Bethany pauses to think for a moment, then nods. “It smelled like the ocean mixed with tropical flowers.”

I meet Max’s gaze, and I can tell we’re thinking the same thing. That scent combination is decidedly feminine, and there were only two women present other than the server, herself––Max and Danica Black, the self-help book ghostwriter.

“If that’s all, I need to go bring in dinner,” Bethany says, and Max and I nod before moving back to our chairs.

I stare at my empty plate while I think about the clue. The scent definitely doesn’t belong to Max. She’s not wearing perfume tonight. And I caught a whiff of her scent earlier today, and her perfume is more of a citrus and woodsy scent, not flowery.

Of course, the server could be making up the detail completely. It’s not like someone actually got up and brushed past her to murder her coworker in the darkness. The only other option is that the murderer is Danica Black, and someone noted her perfume’s scent before now so Bethany could describe it.

Max leans in, whispering, “Maybe you should flirt with Danica after dinner. See if you can smell her perfume.”

I grunt in response, the sound noncommittal. It’s a good idea, sure, but the thought of flirting with Danica leaves a sour feeling in my stomach. I don’t want to. I only want one woman, and she’s sitting right beside me.

Dinner is served, and after the staff leave the room, the conversation around the table picks up. Lars accuses me, and I fight to keep a blank face so as not to give away my own innocence. Let him think it’s me. Peter, the other biographer, says he thinks the killer is either Danica or Max because the stab wound was obviously inflicted by a woman. That the location proves someone of a shorter stature inflicted it.

It’s a good point, and paired with the hint we got from the server, I think he’s right.

“Maybe it was Barnard, himself,” I toss out to throw the others off the trail.

A quick look of relief flashes across Danica’s face before she hides it. My eyes widen slightly. Does that mean she’s the one?

“Did you see that?” Max hisses quietly, and I nod.

She leans closer, and I can feel her warmth on my skin as she says, “It could be an act. Maybe she’s pretending it’s her so people will focus on her while she figures out who the real killer is.”

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