Page 33 of Killer Knows Best

“If you don’t think this is a costume party, you’re missing the obvious.”

“In that case, let’s do our proverbial masks.” He gives me a sideways glance, lips twitching into something close to a grin. “Are you ready for this?”

I nod, though my stomach twists with an odd mix of anticipation and dread.

We’re here to speak with Kiki, aka Karen Holt, a woman whose internet trail is more chaotic than a toddler after a dozen cupcakes.

Nikki somehow dug up the fact that Kiki has a standing date here with her husband and half the posh couples of Crimson Heights. The fact that it’s a Wednesday night makes me wonder just what kind of standing date this might be. My guess is it isn’t a book club or a Bible study.

Jack and I step out of the car and the cold air wraps around us like an unwelcome hug as we make our way up the drive. The gravel crunches under our boots and we inch to the front door, and the closer we get, the more I feel like we’re walking straight into a bear trap. Or a party. I’ve always felt they were one and the same. That’s because I always feel the need to gnaw off a limb to set myself free from the situation.

Ahead of us a figure bounces up the driveway. Her sparkling red dress is so skimpy it seems to defy the laws of physics as the wind engorges it around her hips like a flower.

There she is. Karen Holt is basically a pixie with fine bird-like features and the frenetic energy to match. Her short brown hair bounces as she walks, and if I’m not mistaken, she’s humming. How I detest happy people who hum.

She looks like she should be shivering out here in this fall chill, but somehow, she’s powering through the Arctic blast in a dress that looks more appropriate for a summer beach party than a brisk autumn night just north of Denver.

My limbs feel frozen just looking at her, and I’m fairly certain hers will freeze solid and snap off at some point in the evening. At least hypothermia acts as an analgesic, so she’ll have that working for her.

“Karen Holt?” Jack calls out, and she stops cold, turning around with a bright smile that could light up all of the Western Hemisphere.

She squints our way before her eyes widen the size of dinner dishes.

“Oh my goodness,” she squeals, and the sound is so high-pitched I swear dogs in two counties over can hear it. I’m sure Buddy is pressing his nose against the front window by now. “Geez,” she says with an enthusiastic growl. “You’re both gorgeous!” Her eyes float to Jack and remain there. She doesn’t even blink before grabbing his hand and clutching it like they’re long-lost friends. “Are you guests of Teagan’s?” She doesn’t give us a second to answer before she starts pulling him toward the mansion. “I’m Kiki. Teagan said there would be new people here tonight. Youhaveto sit in my pod.”

Pod?

I shoot Jack a look as if to say,Invasion of the Body Snatchers?

He gives a slight nod as he glances down at her death grip on his hand and both of us are more amused than we are alarmed.

“Your pod?” I ask, trying to keep up. I’m not ready to let this sci-fi bit of info go.

Karen beams over at me and her glossy red lips catch the moonlight. “It’s how we section off the room. We always rotate so no one feels left out.” She licks her lips as she inspects Jack’s features.

There’s no doubt she likes what she sees. Most women do.

I happen to be one of them.

But what’s with the rotation? This must be some sort of networking event.

“Let me guess—” Karen bites down on the naughty smile trying to take over her face. “It’s your first time?”

“Something like that,” I say, while shooting Jack a look that says,what the heck have we gotten into, and he simply shrugs, looking far too entertained by all this to busy himself with thoughts of this event having a dark side.

That’s Jack in a nutshell.

“Don’t worry.” Karen gives a reassuring pat to his arm—still holding his hand like he’s her new best friend, or new best boyfriend. Frankly, I think it’s the latter. “It’s going to be a blast, I promise. We’ll be out of here by ten. Some of us still have bedtimes.” She rolls her eyes and laughs. “Like me. I’m guilty.”

“Hard to believe,” Jack says, his voice dry as desert air.

I believe it. Or at least that she’s guilty of something. Human trafficking comes to mind.

We approach the house as it glows with warm light and laughter spilling out from behind its grand doors. The other guests look polished, elegant, and dressed to the nines as they step out of luxury cars and saunter their way inside.

I glance down at my more practical black pantsuit and Jack’s standard FBI-issue blazer over jeans. We are definitely not blending in. Or at least I’m not. About a dozen women have already leered at Jack’s face and I sincerely doubt they noticed he was even wearing clothes.

We near the entrance and Karen skips ahead with Jack in tow. The sound of soothing jazz music grows in volume, but the sharp bites of laughter and ceaseless chatter of conversation eclipses it. The swarm of bodies, the sea of cologne and expensive perfume, the slotted lids all casting stolen glances in our direction— I can’t help but wonder what kind of circus we’re walking into.

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