Page 66 of No One Was Supposed to Die at This Wedding

Nature was telling us something.

We shouldn’t be here.

It was a message that was hard to miss as we passed shops whose windows had been boarded up with plywood and crews filling sandbags on the beach. There was a long line for the ferry—scared-looking people pulling large suitcases and holding their dogs tight against their bodies.

It was still a beautiful day, and so we chose to ignore the red-and-black hurricane warning flag whipping against the wind and put our feet in the ocean, letting the warmish water tickle our toes, and the hours ticked away without any friction between us.

But now we’re about to go back into the lion’s den, so potential murder feels like something we should talk about.

Somehow there are fewer minefields in that than in our relationship.

“You guys coming or what?” Harper calls through the door. She came back from her boat tour an hour ago with a ridge of sunburn on her nose. I wanted to ask her about the Connor thing, but instead, I’ve added it to the list of things I’ve shoved down and hope never to have to think about again.

“Yes!” I open our door. She’s wearing a flowing dress in a deepteal blue, and her hair is in an updo. She looks, for a change (ha ha), better than me.

She’s also holding a phone.

“Where did you get that?”

“It’s your work phone.”

“I have a work phone?”

“It’s where your work emails come to. You know this.”

“And you brought it this weekend?”

“Good thing I did.”

“Is there some publishing emergency I don’t know about?”

I feel a beat of panic because, despite my joke, thereisa publishing emergency. I’ve owed chapters to my editor for weeks. If it goes too much longer, she could cancel my book deal.

The problem is that the idea I pitched to her has floated away from me the way ideas sometimes do. They feel so strong in the moment, and then,poof, when you try to flesh them out, they’re not there.

I have to find it againorcome up with some new fabulous adventure for Cecilia and Connor to go on, or the series might be over.

Which is ironic, given that I wanted to end it three months ago.

That’s what ironic means, right?53

“No, dummy,” Harper says. “Me having your phone means I can text since mine got fried.”

“Who do you need to text?”

“No one.”

I reach for the phone and she holds it away from me.

Ugh. It must be Connor.

Wasn’t I just saying I didn’t want to know this??

I never learn from my mistakes.

“You look nice,” I say to Harper.

“Flattery will get you somewhere.”

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