Page 38 of Romance Is Dead

“It is really bad, but we have to focus.” I snatched the paper away and stuffed it in my pocket. “If the killer knows we’re investigating, we’re both in danger. You didn’t tell anyone about this, right?”

“No.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“No.”

“What about Mara?”

“No!” As if I needed another reminder of my secrecy. “Let’s go. We need to be back on set in less than half an hour.”

Light from the windows above streamed down as we climbed the steps, illuminating dust motes floating in the stuffy air. Reaching the top, we took a second to survey the area. It was huge—reaching from one end of the house all the way to the other. It had bare, dusty floorboards with exposed beams running overhead in the eaves. The entire space was filled with junk from previous occupants, save for a few paths that wound through the piles of stuff.

This was going to be harder than I had thought.

“Should we just. . . start looking?” Teddy swiped a hand across his forehead, looking as overwhelmed as I felt.

“I guess so.”

As we made our way down one side of the attic, I carefully studied all the belongings forgotten and left by previous occupants: a brightly colored tricycle sat next to a box of kids’ clothes from the eighties, which was next to a sewing machine that looked like it could be a priceless antique from the jazz era.

“Hey, look at this.” Teddy gestured to an old record player next to a stack of albums and handed me an old Fleetwood Mac LP. It looked like an original edition of theRumoursalbum.

“Oh my God.” I wiped some of the dust off Stevie Nicks. “I’ve always wanted one of these.”

“Well, now you’ve got it.”

I smiled wryly. “If I had more questionable ethics, I’d definitely be sneaking this back to my hotel room with me.”

“Lucky record.” His eyes twinkled as he gazed at me. I wanted to swim in that moment, enjoy the comfortable feeling of his eyes on me in the solitude of the attic. The energy between us crackled like something once again was brewing.

Whatever it was, it felt dangerous.

I looked away, breaking the spell so we could continue to sift through junk and peer into shadowy corners. There was only about a quarter of the space left, and so far we’d found nothing useful. We picked our way over old rakes and shovels and through old racks of clothing, but nothing stuck out as potential evidence. I was about to suggest we admit defeat when I rounded a looming bookcase and stopped short.

Someone had been here. And by the looks of it, recently.

On the other side of the bookcase was a window tucked into a little alcove. Empty beer cans lay on the floor, and an old sweatshirt had been draped over an old chaise lounge. The cans looked clean and new, and the sweatshirt was free of dust, unlike everything else up here. Had they been left by whoever had been up here the night of Trevor’s murder?

“Oh my God,” Teddy said, hurrying over.

“What?”

He picked up one of the cans. “Who still drinks Natty Light?” He shuddered. “Disgusting.”

“Is that what you’re focusing on right now?”

“I’m just saying, whoever was here had pretty terrible taste.”

“Insightful.” I walked over to the chaise and picked up the sweatshirt. Holding it by my fingertips, I shook it out so I could take a better look. It was maroon with giant gray letters on it: WSU.

Teddy squinted at it. “Washington State?”

I nodded, my mind whirring. The sweatshirt looked familiar, but I couldn’t pinpoint from where. I closed my eyes, holding the image in my mind. I’d seen it several times before, but where? I closed my eyes and focused, the face I associated it with gradually coming into view. It was. . .

“Brent!” I remembered now. “It’s Brent’s. He’s had it forever. He wore it the first day before he took it off for last looks.”

“You watching Brent strip, Jigsaw?”

“I haven’t done that since 2017, actually.”

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