The play runs its course, and before we know it, Wyatt staggers into the room looking deathly pale, the color drained from his face as if there were a real medical reason behind it.
“Help,” he whispers as if he could hardly get the word out.
I nudge my elbow into Emmie’s side. “It’s almost as if he’s really in shock.”
She nods. “You can tell he’s done this before.”
Wyatt’s hands are clutched over his chest as red fluid curls between his fingers, and he drops to the floor just shy of the middle of the room. The pool of sanguine liquid expands around him quietly, and I can’t help but think that’s going to leave a nasty stain on the carpet.
Thomas asks the audience to write down their thoughts on who the killer might be, and they quickly oblige before a dark-haired girl with a nametag that reads STORMY runs around collecting the scraps of paper they were provided with.
A bell rings, just the way Thomas said it would, and the lights go out.
Wait. Did he say that the lights would go out?
Oh, never mind. I do my best to stumble to the back of the room by memory and, sure enough, I slap my hand over the sign before I slap my fingers over the butcher knife. It feels wet, warm, and sticky.
Ugh. I didn’t realize they were going for such good special effects. The bell rings once again and I quickly dart my way through the murmuring crowd with the blade positioned downward—God forbid we have a real accident here tonight, and with me of all people holding the knife. I kick my foot out a bit until I hit something soft, what I’m guessing is Wyatt lying on the floor, and it takes another minute or so for the lights to come back on.
I hold the knife high in the air as I look down at Wyatt with his vacant stare, his mouth frozen open.
“I did it!” I shout with a touch of triumph in my voice. “I’m the killer!”
The room erupts in both cheers and jeers. It looks as if Thomas was right. Half the room seemed to get it right.
Mackenzie, the infamous Mayor Woods, catches my eye. “That’s our Bizzy,” she shouts. “Always the serial killer, never the victim.”
A warm round of laughter breaks out.
Thomas steps up. “Thank you to all who came out tonight to help us celebrate one year of killer reading. Let’s give a round of applause to our fine actors this evening.”
An applause breaks out and most of the cast takes a bow, but I can’t help but notice that Wyatt is still lying there with that same vacant look in his eyes and his mouth still frozen in that odd position.
I bend over his body. “You can get up now,” I say as that adorable golden retriever, Gatsby, comes over and lets out a few wild barks. But Wyatt doesn’t flinch.
“Jasper,” I pant as he comes in close. “I think something went wrong.”
Jasper drops to his knees and checks for a pulse before shaking his head my way.
“Oh dear God,” I gasp, garnering the attention of those around me.
Wyatt Sanders isn’t going to take a bow tonight. His final curtain has already fallen.
Wyatt Sanders is dead, and I just confessed to a room full of people that I’m the killer.
Chapter 3
A sharp scream comes for the crowd as Wyatt’s girlfriend, Molly, falls to her knees just shy of the body.
“What’s happening?” she shouts at the top of her lungs. “My God, he’s dead, isn’t he?” She looks to Jasper for confirmation and he gives it with a nod. “Why?”
The poor thing collapses over him and it’s painful to witness.
Jasper pulls out his badge and waves it high over his head.
“Seaview Sheriff’s Department,” he shouts as the crowd gasps and mumbles. “This is officially a crime scene. No one is to leave the building without speaking to a member of the sheriff’s department first. We’re going to have some questions for you. Deputy Leo Granger will secure the exit.”
Thomas Dean, the manager, bolts over, his face looks ashen, his body visibly shaking.
“What’s happened? This isn’t how the script goes.” He looks down at Wyatt. This is better than any script we’ve ever used before.
I inch back to get a better look at the man. That was a horrible thought. Come to think of it, he’s shaking a little too hard. It looks more like bad acting on his part. And then it hits me. I’m still holding the sticky butcher knife.
“Jasper,” I hiss and I look down at the bloody weapon. “Oh my God.” My body bucks at the horrific sight. My right hand is covered with the sanguine liquid, quickly turning brown as it dries over my skin. “I didn’t do it,” I say as the knife slips from my hand.
Molly staggers to her feet. “Yes, you did!” she shouts, and the room quiets to a dull whisper. “You announced it to everyone. You were holding a bloody knife!” She looks to Jasper with eyes bulging. “I demand you arrest her. She’s the killer! My God, you took it too far.”
A petite woman steps up, examining my face as if she were seeing a confession written across my forehead—although she wouldn’t need it. I shouted it from the rooftops.
“You’re that woman, aren’t you?” The petite girl covers her mouth. Her glossy chestnut-colored hair reaches the top of her shoulders, flat-ironed with a mirror shine. Her tiny lips are caked a frosted pink. “You own the inn. You’re the woman who keeps finding the bodies.”
“Oh no.” I shake my head. “I mean, I run the inn. I don’t own it. And I have found a few bodies, but—”
Molly moans like a wounded animal. “She’s a serial killer!”
“No.” I shake my head in protest just as a swarm of sheriff’s deputies enter the room.
Mom runs over, her face white with shock. “Bizzy, let’s get you out of here
