Page 13 of Wolfsbane Hall
He only kept one secret from her, and it was a dark one from his past. It haunted him so deeply that he used alcohol, drugs, and fake jubilation to cover it up.
The closest Celestine got to uncovering it was that infamous night on the Golden Gate Bridge. He rumbled, mostly incoherently, but he repeated a girl’s name over and over again. Unfortunately, it was so slurred that Celestine couldn’t make out the name. But it was something like Margaret or Meagan—something starting with M.
But as soon as she broached the subject again, he shut down harshly and withdrew, not talking to her for three months. She never brought it up again, because it wasn’t worth losing their friendship.
And Celestine needed Everett to survive at Wolfsbane Hall.
Celestine brought the joint back to her mouth and inhaled slowly, holding the smoke in her lungs for a moment before exhaling. The smoke hung between them, catching in the silver light of the moon. Then she handed the blunt back to Everett.
“So, where did you hide the evidence?” he asked, taking out another match to relight the joint, cupping it and protecting the end from the wind as he did it.
“I am not sure I should tell you that.”
“Cece, I am lit like a Christmas tree. I ain’t exactly in the mood to go on a scavenger hunt.”
“You have a whole house of aides looking for evidence right now for you.”
“All fools, the lot of them.”
Celestine closed her eyes, letting the comfort of the high hit her. “If I tell you, are you going to end the show right away?”
“Of course not.”
“Show above all else?”
“Show above all else,” he repeated.
Celestine nodded. “I hid my bloody dress in the Smoking Room.”
“Clever.” He brought the blunt to his lips and savored the last drag. “I assume you are framing Richard.”
Everett was putting it all together. He wasn’t a good detective simply because he didn’t have the patience, but the man was brilliant. All the Ashbrooks were, in their own ways.
James was a scientist who enjoyed tinkering with metal andinventing new devices. Dean was observant and clever, while Everett was the book-smart gentleman. He read everything from physics to romance novels, nearly as much as Celestine.
“Yes.”
“Tell me the truth, did you really shack up with him tonight?”
Celestine inhaled sharply, staring at the circles of silver smoke lingering between them. “Yes.”
He chuckled. “You’re almost as bad as I am. You’ll partake in anything when you’re the murderer.”
She tipped her chin in agreement. There was no arguing with that.
“Alas, our respite has come to an end. We need to get back to our little play.” Everett looked nearly as frustrated with that fact as Celestine felt.
Neither was particularly in the mood to continue. Everett was probably feeling too inebriated and unsteady, while Celestine simply hated waiting.
Waiting to be discovered for murder was its own torture. And tonight was no different.
After they returned inside the house, Celestine watched the show unfold over the three hours, moving like honey dripping from a jar. Thick, sticky, and utterly uncomfortable. Celestine played her part, acting shocked and flabbergasted as she was repeatedly questioned. Despite Dean and Everett already having the answer, the show continued.
Yet, anticipation and its resulting anxiety still twisted her stomach. Waiting to be discovered was its own form of purgatory. Dean should’ve ended the game hours ago, but he didn’t, and she didn’t understand why. And that lack of understanding caused her to fret more, the worry eating away at her body.
“You need to eat.” A voice pulled her out of a dazed state. It was Frances Deere, the sixth member of the cast.
“I’m fine.” Celestine couldn’t eat, not with angst stirring her stomach.
