Page 78 of No One Was Supposed to Die at This Wedding

You’ve probably already arrived at that conclusion.

“No need to take that tone,” Mr. Prentice says. “We areallhere putting our lives at risk to accommodate the vagaries of some overpaid actors and—”

“Tell us how you really feel,” Allison says dryly.

David produces a notepad and a pen from his back pocket. He clicks the pen open.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Taking notes. This is good stuff.”

“For what?”

“The sequel.”

“I already told you, there isn’t going to be a sequel.”

“I don’t think that’s up to you, Eleanor,” Tyler says.

“It’smybook.”

“Where’s Emma?” Fred says slowly, stopping our childish argument in its tracks.

I snap my attention back to him. He’s got dirt across his nose and his eyes look exhausted.

“She’s upstairs. We should let her know you’re okay.” I look at the collection of men and women around me. “Simone, can you tell Emma we found Fred and he’s all right? And Mr. and Mrs. Winter, too? They’ll be worried.”

Simone folds her arms across her chest. “Why should it be me?”

“Just go, Simone.”

She wants to fight me, but she has no good excuse to refuse. So instead, she shrugs and then leaves.

“Can you at least check if anyone here has medical training?” I say to Mr. Prentice.

“Yes, of course.” He takes out his phone. “There’s no signal.”

“Well, go find one.” I make amove onmotion with my hand, then turn to Fred again while the manager is bustling through the crowd. “Give me your phone,” I say quietly.

“What phone?”

“The burner. Quickly, Fred. It has a tracker on it.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls it out. I palm it and put it in the pocket of my skirt, checking over my shoulder if anyone noticed what I was doing.

Great.

Everyone did.

Whatever.

Oliver’s even laughing at me, though he’s trying to mask it behind a serious expression.

I can’t blame him. I realized a while ago that I was bad at subterfuge, and I’m too old to change that now.

Not that I’mthatold.

Good Lord, it’s likeI’mthe one who’s been hit on the head.

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