Page 67 of No One Was Supposed to Die at This Wedding

“Good.”

The phone bleats. She looks down and frowns at it. “That person is tweeting again.”

“Who?”

“@Emmaswooden. I put an alert on it.”

“What did they say?”

She shows me. It’s a short thread.

@Emmaswooden Maybe the soak didn’t get you all wet but you haven’t got nine lives left now...

@Emmaswooden I wouldn’t go high flying, you’re always lying, just stop trying.

@EmmaswoodenAnd hold on to your man real tight, if you can’t treat him right, you wouldn’t want to lose him in the night.

“Song lyrics?”

“Not from any song I know.”

“But the ‘all wet,’ that must refer to the hot tubs, and the ‘nine lives’...that refers to cats.”

“Yeah.”

That frisson of fear I pushed away rises into my throat. “It’s someone who’s here.”

“Or who has contact with someone here.”

“Right. Shit.”

“Should we tell Emma?”

“We definitely should,” Oliver says.

“I agree,” Harper says. “But here’s some good news: I looked into it and cats are allergic to chocolate and grapes...those were in the dessert Mrs. Winter gave it.”

“So, not poison.”

“Not for humans. But that’s probably why the cat seized.”

Ugh. Inspector Tucci wasright? That almost never happens.

“We did some investigating of our own,” I say, then fill her in on our conversations with José.

“So he took hush money?” Harper says.

“He did.”

“Did you, at any point in your conversation, say, ‘No way, José’?”

“Why would I say that?”

“Come on, you definitely thought it at least.”

Harper’s right. This does sound like me.

But it’s kind of annoying to be called out on my shit, and by my own sister at that.

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