Page 38 of Cruel Pleasures

I lurk the halls for the next hour. Eventually, the staff disappear into the kitchens and other parts of the manor. Ramsey pries himself away from Weinberg’s lips and sneers at her that he expects her in his private quarters later tonight.

His footsteps thud as he walks off, totally unaware of what’ll happen next.

Everyone is.

Weinberg maybe most of all.

Imani appears during the middle of round one, slipping out of the theater to go to the bathroom. I keep a distance, following her the entire way. Though she tries to be discreet, there’s nothing subtle about her harried movements at all—she’s once again perturbed by the violence she’s witnessed tonight.

She needs the break to splash water onto her face and regain her composure.

A couple minutes later, she emerges with a deep, steadying sigh, and returns to the theater.

I’m the first person to notice what’s happened in that small window of time. I’m the first person that comes across the dead body lying on the floor.

But I’m not the first person that alerts the others.

The hall fills with society members once round one is over. Mrs. Vanderson comes across the dead body first—she lets out a bloodcurdling scream that attracts the attention of the masses. The rest of the members spill out of the theater to find out what’s going on.

They each freeze once they do.

Talia Weinberg laying in a puddle of her own blood, eyes still open in death.

And I’m the only one who was around long enough to have an inkling about what might have happened.

10. Imani

Fantasies - Llynks

Dead. Talia’s dead.

The D word turns over and over again in my head. I stand wedged between the other society members, shocked into silence. For all the gruesome entertainment they’ve delighted in, they’re just as silent. Just as stunned as I am at the scene we’ve come across.

Talia Weinberg hasn’t just dropped dead.

She’s been murdered, a deep gash torn open on her midsection. The wound seems to be from some kind of large knife; the sparkly sequins on her gown painted blood red. Her arms and legs are bent at unnatural angles, almost like she’d been taken by surprise, then crumpled to the ground once struck.

As we gather around to gawk at the morbid scene, she pales. The last vestiges of life drain away.

Mrs. Vanderson breaks out in inconsolable cries, as if she’s witnessed her daughter’s death, burying her face into her pigeon-chested husband. The Hostess and Timothee push their way toward the front.

“Everyone, no need to panic! Please safely return to your rooms,” Timothee announces. “The festivities for tonight are over. That includes the after-hours playrooms. We ask that you remain in your rooms for the rest of the night while this situation is sorted out.”

“Sorted out?” grunts the portly man I’d sat next to at dinner last night. I’ve since learned he’s Wesley Cromwell, wealthy oil tycoon. He takes an angry step toward Timothee. “What do you mean sorted out? Talia was murdered!”

“Who would’ve done it?” asks Olivia Belini, glancing around at the others. Fear threads into her tone. “Who could’ve… she was stabbed!”

“Barbaric. So barbaric!” Mrs. Vanderson sobs.

“Don’t work yourself up, June. You need to lie down.” Mr. Vanderson puts his arm around his fragile wife to escort her off.

“To hell with that!” Mr. Cromwell grunts. “Worked up is exactly what we need to be!”

“You were last with her, Nolan,” Olivia says. “What did you do to her?”

Nolan’s features screw up in disgust and he spits out, “Me? I fucked the girl and that was all, you twit. I certainly didn’t kill her. Not my style.”

“Then who did?”