Page 135 of No One Was Supposed to Die at This Wedding

Everyone is performing.

It’s a room full of professional liars, after all—actors and those who orbit around them.

I should’ve kept that in mind.

Because—and you should know this from the page count—someone’s sitting there without a genuine smile on their face.

Someone’s plotting a murder.

Someone’s already committed one.

But who?

Let’s spin the wheel of suspects: Fred. Emma. Shawna. Connor. David. Allison. Simone. Mr. and Mrs. Winter. Harper. Oliver. Me.

Did I leave anyone out?

Oh, Inspector Tucci, though I doubt he did it.

He is, how do you say, notthatstupid. Or he doesn’t have a motive. Take your pick.

So step right up if you have a theory. We’re in a circus, after all. Spin the wheel, pick a prize, solve a murder.

Haveyoufigured it out yet?

“Have I told you that you’re beautiful?” Oliver asks me as he spins me around the dance floor during the reception. He’s dressed in a tux because it’s a black-tie affair, and I’ve already told him that I’m going to insist that he wear one at least once a month from now on.

It’s late—we’ve eaten dinner and dessert, and Emma and Fred cut the cake with a large knife and then Emma smooshed a piece of it onto Fred’s face before kissing him. The storm has started outside, the rain pattering against the windows, streaking them with water like they’re in a car wash. The lights have flickered several times, but have never fully gone out.

But those are outside problems. Inside, the party rages on. The band never made it, but there’s a sound system pumping outwedding hits, and people are dancing and making liberal use of the open bar. Fred and Emma are glowing and happy, roaming among the tables, stopping to talk to each guest for a few minutes, kissing and hugging.

And I’m so happy for her.

I’m happy for me.

“Youhavetold me I’m beautiful already today,” I say to Oliver, “but you can say it as many times as you like.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

I tuck my head against his shoulder and breathe him in.

“You think she’s having a good time?” Oliver asks.

“Who?”

“Officer Anderson.”

I pull my head back and scan the room. She’s sitting off to the side, her back against the wall, observing. She’s still in her uniform—I guess she didn’t have anything else to wear—and I can’t put my finger on why she’d come. But Tyler’s locked up in a jail cell in Avalon, so I guess she had nothing to do.

“Is she hoping someone’s going to confess?” Oliver asks.

“Unclear. You don’t think Tyler did it?”

“Nope. And you don’t either, I’m guessing.”

I sigh. Oliver does know me well. “Who then?”

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