Page 23

Nobody was listening to Millie.

Which, if you know Millie, might sound impossible. But it was happening. Right in front of my eyes. And it was the kind of epically willful ignoring that only family is capable of.

“What about stabbed?” Millie’s mom, Christine, had her attention fixed on me. Like Millie, she was blond and petite. And like Millie, she loved to, er, communicate. And she’d been communicating with me so much this evening that I was starting to understand what those poor animals felt when they finally decided to chew their own legs off. Gesturing with her knife, she leaned over the table. “Have you ever been stabbed?”

“KEME’S never been stabbed,” Millie said. Loudly. “Have you, Keme?”

Keme didn’t answer. That didn’t seem fair; I had to answer all the questions that were launched my way, even (for example) when, as soon as we got to Millie’s house, Christine asked me, quote, Oh, sweetie, did you just wake up?

It also wasn’t fair that somehow, Keme had avoided the theme of the night—ugly holiday sweaters. I was wearing a hideous concoction Millie had provided that had a plastic garland glued to it, with tiny ornaments that jingled every time I moved. And Bobby’s sweater looked like a Christmas tree, with triangular flaps of cloth hanging off the arms to look, well, like a Christmas tree. Everybody was wearing an ugly sweater. Everyone except Keme. He was dressed as he always was—tonight’s outfit was board shorts plus a long-sleeved hoodie with a hole in the cuff. He sat there, poking at the lima beans on his plate and looking like he was thinking about doing some stabbing himself.

Not that I blamed him. A holiday dinner with Millie’s family was already a lot, and there were too many people crowded around the dining room table. Millie and Keme, of course. Millie’s mom, Christine, and her dad, Matthew, who gave off the air that he had made it this far in life only through the grace of television and what Christine called his man cave . Then Millie’s brothers, Paul and Ryan. Paul was older and taller. Ryan was younger and shorter—by an inch or two. They were both blond, both wiry, both in their twenties. Their notable achievement in life was that they’d been publicly spanked—I’m talking bare-bottom in a parking lot—when they were children. For fighting in a Burger King. (I’m serious: people in Hastings Rock still talked about it.)

So far, so good.

Then there were Millie’s sisters, Kassandra and Angeline.

They shared the family look: fair coloring, slender, attractive. That’s where the resemblance stopped. Paul and Ryan were the kind of guys who argued about video games (I mean, I’m not pointing any fingers—sometimes Keme cheats, and I have to yell at him) and who got themselves thrown out of laser tag matches with shocking frequency. And Millie was like this vibrating ball of pure energy. Kassandra and Angeline, on the other hand, looked—and talked—like the girls in those makeup tutorials that sometimes popped up in my TikTok feed. (I watched one drag queen video, and now my algorithm is doomed.) The first time I met them, I had the terrifying suspicion that they wanted to date me. Fortunately (for everyone, probably), I turned out to be gay. One time, totally unintentionally, I’d blocked Kassandra with my shopping cart at the Keel Haul General Store. She’d asked me to move it. That had been all. And Angeline had been standing right next to her, smiling. But I swear to God, I caught a glimpse of something in their eyes, and it made me think of those maniacs who accelerate when a cat darts in front of their car.

Even worse, tonight was boyfriend night, so along with me and Bobby and Christine and Matthew and Millie and Keme and Kassandra and Angeline, there were two strangers at the table. David was ghostly pale, with dark hair in a massive shag, kind of like one of those kids from Stranger Things . Elliott was a lawyer, as he’d already told us three times, and he was wearing wraparound sunglasses on the back of his head. On the Oregon Coast. In December. At night. Inside.

Christine was still waiting for an answer.

“Uh, no,” I said. I kept a wary eye on her knife hand. “Never been stabbed.”

“Dash has never been stabbed,” Christine announced to the table.

“I knew a guy who got stabbed once,” David said in a hauntingly spectral voice. (I’m a writer; I’m allowed to say things like that.) “It was at this club in Portland. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

“Keme LOVES clubs,” Millie said. “Right, Keme?”

I had my doubts about Keme loving clubs, but then I also had my doubts about any of us surviving the night.

“Bobby’s been stabbed,” I said.

“No,” Bobby said, giving me a look. “I haven’t.”

But Christine didn’t take the bait. “Dash, tell them about the time you stopped Vivienne from murdering everyone in their sleep.” For David and Elliott’s benefit, she added, “Dash is a celebrity in Hastings Rock. Speaking of which—” She turned a gaze on me like one of those spear-fishermen about to spear a fish. “We’d love to have you in our Nativity pageant. We do it every year.”

“I’m going to be MARY,” Millie announced.

“We’ll see. Dash, I think you might be the perfect Joseph.”

“What do you mean, we’ll see ? You always said I couldn’t be Mary because Mary had to have a boyfriend. And I DO have a boyfriend. I have KEME!”

Angeline wiggled forward in her seat. “I thought I was going to be Mary.”

“Gracie Sterling always get to be Mary,” Millie said. From the tone, I thought Gracie Sterling might be wise not to frequent any dark alleys or abandoned parking garages in the near future. “It’s MY turn.”

“Desperate much?” Kassandra said.

Angeline stared at Millie, the look full of venom. “At least Mary’s boyfriend could talk. What’s he going to do? Stand up there?”

Keme didn’t react. Bobby, on the other hand, put down his fork and knife and pressed his hands flat on the table.

“For heaven’s sake, Millicent,” Christine said, “not everything is about you. Oh, Dash, you have to come to the Christmas tree farm with us tomorrow.” She brightened, as though something had just occurred to her. “I can give you your lines for the pageant.”

“Pageants aren’t exactly my thing,” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re going to be Joseph, and you’re going to love it.”

I opened my mouth and realized I had no idea what to say to that.

“It would mean so much to everyone,” Christine said. And then, to the others, “Dash is very popular.”

“I’m really not,” I said.

“Everyone knows Dash.”

“Oh God, I hope not.”

“Everyone loves Dash.”

“No, definitely not. I’m very un popular. It’s a combination of personality and my looks—”

“Dash is always solving murders,” Christine said over me. Then she gave me a little hurry-up gesture with the knife. “Tell them, Dash.”

Across the table, Millie was giving me a pleading look.

“Actually,” I said, “Keme has saved my life a couple of times. When Vivienne had me at gunpoint, for example—”

“KEME, TELL THEM HOW YOU SAVED US!”

At this, Kassandra and Angeline shared an eyeliner-heavy roll of their eyes.

Keme slouched lower in his seat. He had chosen the no-eye-contact approach to dinner parties. Keme was wise beyond his years.

For the first time that night, Christine flicked a look at Keme. Then her gaze came back to David and Elliott, and there was no mistaking the total and complete dismissal. “Dash was locked in a secret room for months ,” Christine said, “so Vivienne could take advantage of his body, and he kept trying to escape, but Vivienne wouldn’t let him, and he had to go potty in a bucket —”

“A bucket ?” I couldn’t keep the horror out of my voice.

“That’s the part you object to?” Bobby asked in an undertone.

“David’s a musician,” Kassandra broke in. “He’s on Spotify.”

That seemed to stump everyone for a moment. Bobby rallied, though, and asked, “How did you meet?”

Kassandra managed to look simultaneously insulted and like Bobby was the stupidest person in the world. “On Instagram.”

This was too much, apparently, for Angeline, who cut in, “Elliott and I met in person. I was having trouble with this stupid ATM, and he swooped in to help me. Elliott’s so smart. He’s a—”

“I’m a lawyer,” Elliott said. Then he laughed. Flashed a lot of white teeth. “But don’t ask me to get you out of a parking ticket.”

Bobby made a sound that I knew was directed at me, but before I could kick his ankle, he asked, “What kind of music?”

“You’ve probably never heard of it,” David said.

Bobby is one of the kindest, friendliest, most easygoing people on the planet (unless his deputy mode activates and he catches you idling at a red curb and you only closed your eyes for five seconds). So, it definitely tells you something when Bobby chooses not to respond.

“Come on, David,” I said—mostly for Millie’s sake. “Tell us. Maybe I’ve heard of it; I do spend a ridiculous amount of time on the internet.”

Everyone stared at me. Even Bobby.

“It’s David,” David said, biting off the words.

“Right,” I said. “That’s what I said: David.”

“Da-vid,” Christine said slowly.

“That’s what I’m saying. David.”

“David!” Kassandra snapped.

“Why don’t we put the TV on?” Millie’s dad suggested.

“What is happening right now?” I said to Bobby. “Am I going crazy?”

“Maybe let it go,” Bobby said.

I didn’t know what to let go—I didn’t even know what was happening—but it turned out to be a moot point because at that moment, Christine said, “I think we should all be thankful that everyone has a good job right now. David’s a musician, and Elliott is a lawyer, and Paul is doing holiday deliveries, and Ryan just got made manager at Pirate’s Cove.”

“God,” David said, the words only vaguely directed toward Ryan, “I can’t imagine working with all those kids.”

Elliott adjusted his back-of-the-head sunglasses. “That’s got to be better than driving a delivery truck and playing on your phone all day.”

Paul and Ryan shot the boyfriends matching dirty looks.

“And Dash is a writer!” Christine announced.

“Not really—” I began.

“What have you written?” David asked. “I probably haven’t heard of it.”

(He beat me to the punch.)

“Writing is such a good hobby,” Elliott said.

“Is it?” I asked.

Bobby squeezed my thigh. Probably to keep me from levitating out of my seat, Matrix style, and kicking Elliott in the face.

“Dash is going to write me into his book,” Millie announced. “I’m going to be Jinx St. James, and I’m going to be Will Gower’s SIDEKICK! She’s tough and brave, and she doesn’t take crap from anybody. Right, Dash?”

Everyone looked at me.

“Um, well, we did have a conversation about that—”

“What about Keme?” Kassandra interrupted in a too-sweet voice. “Does he have a job?”

Angeline played with her napkin, not looking up as she said, “They’re hiring for after-school at McDonald’s.”

“KEME HAS A GOOD JOB!” Millie announced. “HE’S GOT A GREAT JOB!”

Which was news to me—and, judging by Keme’s face, news to him too.

“And I think a coffee shop is just right for Millie,” Christine said. She seemed to remember the rest of us and said, “Oh, and Bobby’s a detective .” The little thrill rang through the room. “Tell them, Bobby.” But Bobby didn’t have a chance before she said, “Like Joe on Blue Bloods ! It’s perfect, isn’t it, since Dash is a mystery writer?”

“Bobby isn’t a detective,” I said. “He’s a deputy.”

I didn’t bother to add that Bobby was also a very busy deputy. In the year and a half since I’d arrived in Hastings Rock, the sheriff’s office had lost its former sheriff and one of its veteran deputies. And although Sheriff Acosta had won the most recent election by a landslide, there was only so much she could do about recruiting; it had been hard to find new deputies, and it left the office short-staffed—and my boyfriend overworked.

Everyone traded looks at my comment, but the penny didn’t drop until Bobby said, his gaze focused on some neutral part of the room that wasn’t me, “The position is still open.”

Several long seconds passed before I said, “What?”

“But it’s going to be Bobby,” Christine said. “We were all talking about it at church.”

I took a few more seconds for myself. “I don’t understand. The sheriff’s office doesn’t have any detectives.”

Christine must have misinterpreted my tone because she stretched across the table to pat my hand. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’ll still get to solve all the murders in this town. Oh, tell them about the time someone ran you over with their car!”

That registered, but I couldn’t engage with it. I said, “Bobby.”

It looked like it took him an effort to meet my gaze, and he said in a low voice that was almost a mumble, “Nothing’s official yet.”

I wanted to know what that meant—and why I hadn’t heard anything, official or not—but an argument erupted between Paul and Ryan.

“Because I’m not supposed to give out free cards!” Ryan shouted. “And I already gave you one, and you lost it!”

“I didn’t lose it!” Paul shouted back.

“Then where is it, der?”

“I don’t know, der!”

“If you don’t know, then you lost it, der!”

“I didn’t lose it, der! You owe me! I traded you my airsoft rifle for that card.”

“Yeah, and it’s a piece of junk!”

“I don’t want you boys playing with those airsoft rifles,” Christine said. “You’ll shoot your eye out. Ryan, give your brother another card. Paul, stop losing everything.”

“KEME NEVER LOSES ANYTHING!” Millie interjected.

“Did he lose his diploma?” Angeline said with a smirk for Kassandra.

Red rose in Keme’s cheeks.

“You’re such a tool!” Paul shoved Ryan, and the younger brother rocked in his seat.

Ryan shoved back. “You’re just jealous because Mr. Hari made me the manager!”

Another shove. “You’re not the manager. You’re a manager, and you suck!”

“WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?” Millie screamed over them. “WHY ARE YOU BEING SO MEAN TONIGHT?”

“Boys!” Christine clapped her hands. “Boys!”

“I don’t suck!” Ryan bellowed as he tackled Paul, carrying both of them to the floor. “You suck!”

“It’s not my fault you’re dating a high schooler,” Angeline said.

Kassandra sniffed. “He doesn’t even have a car.”

“Paul!” More clapping. “Ryan! Knock it off!”

Millie’s dad chose that moment to get to his feet, drop his napkin on his seat, and head for his man cave.

“KEME DOESN’T NEED A CAR!” Millie shouted, but she sounded like she was about to cry.

“Why not?” Elliott said. “Because he’s got his bike?”

David—or whatever his name was—laughed, and the boyfriends bumped fists.

Millie burst into tears and fled.

Head down, Keme slunk out of the room after her.

Meanwhile, Christine had hauled Ryan off Paul, and Paul was retreating from the dining room, one hand pressed to a red mark rising on his cheek.

Kassandra and Angeline were simultaneously not looking at anyone and, somehow, managing to resemble two cats who had gotten into the cream.

And next to me, Bobby looked like he was about to arrest everyone and send us all to the nuthouse.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Christine said in her hostess-on-the-brink-of-madness voice. (I’m a writer, remember?) And then she dragged Ryan out of the room by the ear.

Kassandra was studying her press-on nails. She managed a clear, articulate: “Ugh.”

“She’s so dramatic,” Angeline said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Did you hear her? It was all night. Why does she have to make everything about her?”

This time, Kassandra’s noise was more of the scoff-disgust-contempt variety.

Angeline looked at me. “I don’t know how you put up with her.”

“We don’t put up with her,” I said. “She’s our friend, and we love her.”

Angeline’s mouth dropped open.

Kassandra made a sound like I’d been unspeakably rude.

“Excuse us,” Bobby said. “Please thank your parents for inviting us.”

Bobby didn’t exactly throw me over his shoulder and carry me out of there, but he did have a firm hand on my arm as he escorted me—that’s a word law-enforcement types loves to use—out of the dining room and toward the front door.

“Should we check on Millie?” I asked.

Bobby shook his head. “Keme’s here. And I think she probably wants some time to compose herself.”

“Good luck in this nuthouse,” I muttered.

(You can say nuthouse twice, if you’re a writer, if one time it’s in dialogue and one time it’s in your head.)

“Remind me why it was so important for us to be here tonight.” From anybody but Bobby, I would have called it a grumble.

“I don’t know. Millie kept telling me how fun it would be.”

“And you believed her?”

“She begged me, Bobby. I mean, I get it; she obviously didn’t want to face these jackals all by herself. Besides, I thought it would be, you know, like a cultural experience. You know—ethnography, field work. A groundbreaking anthropological study as we mingle with the locals.”

“And how’d that turn out for you?”

“Uh, not as I expected.” I gave a quick glance back at the dining room and remembered the look I’d once seen in Kassandra’s eyes. “Remember how field work turned out for Indiana Jones? I feel like we’re trying to escape the secret temple, and if we don’t hurry, that giant rock is going to smush us—”

A shadow lurched into our path, and I remembered how that had ended for Dr. Jones—he’d escaped the boulder only to come face to face with a lot of people with pointy things.

But it was only Millie. Her eyes were red. Her nose was red. She stood in a strange, huddled stance, trembling, and I realized she was trying not to cry.

Bobby spoke first. “Millie, I’m so sorry about tonight—”

“Don’t leave,” she said, her voice scratchy. “Please. I need your help.”