Page 5 of Rogue’s Path (Sweet Chaos #1)

Dylan

When I left Dahlia’s house a few hours ago to get ready for the evening’s festivities, it was a tranquil space.

Now it’s a buzz with life and happy chatter.

Dahlia mentioned she’d invited friends to go on this wild evening of bar hopping and challenges, but I never imagined she’d have made this many friends in Urbium in such a short time.

Half of them I know from our writing group.

The other half, if I had to guess, are a mixture of old money and attitude, which shouldn’t work.

Somehow, the tight glittery dresses and stilettos go really well with the pearls and diamonds around their throats.

A room full of vastly different women begs to become a mystery novel. All we need is one person to die. Probably by poison, since women love to use it.

The oddly happy one in the fifties floral dress coated in sequins could sip her glass of water with cucumber in it and suddenly start choking.

The glass slips from her fingers, shattering into a million pieces as she clutches her chest, foaming at the mouth.

Her carefully applied lipstick never smudges as she dies in front of our eyes while the killer silently crows about finally exacting her revenge.

Trite. Complete garbage.

Maybe it’s the other one that dies. The odd one who’s taking notes at a party.

She’s pretty in a different way from the rest of the women.

Her body is a mixture of angles and points.

Like someone forgot to smooth out the edges when they put her together.

Yet when she moves in just the right direction, all those angles shift and form these breathtaking shapes that photographers long to capture.

Her death would be subtle. Maybe a build-up of poison over many days.

She hasn’t been sleeping well or eating well, but she pushed herself to come to the party only to have her system finally give out as she walks to the bathroom.

The group would rush to her side, shimmering around her like a disco ball, reflecting the light as it fades away from her eyes.

All of us would be suspects even as we wailed over her still corpse.

Her beauty lost forever from the world because of the information found in that silly zebra notebook.

She knew it was important, so she concealed it in a secret code that could only be cyphered after finding the key, which she hid under a floorboard in Dahlia’s library.

The book would definitely spend some time there. I need a library in my house. All of my guestrooms are empty. If I ever finished decorating them for company, people might think I want to see them. Or them to see me…

A stalker, I have a stalker.

“Are you okay? Do you need a drink?” One of the new friends walks over to where I’m sitting on a step near the front door, watching the conversations all around.

“Fine.” You’re fine. Your stalker can’t find you here.

She takes a step back, appraising me.

Like my demeanor could tell her about the wild… and scary stories playing out in my head. Sometimes it’s easy to think the stalker is all in my imagination, like the rest of the death in my life. If I hadn’t taken a picture of the card before the police came, I might be able to convince myself.

“You’re one of Dahlia’s writer friends.”

“Guilty as charged. My name’s Dylan.” I offer my hand.

There’s something about the way this woman holds herself that screams no-nonsense businesswoman, regardless of the fact that her dress has more gems on it than most chandeliers.

And I’d bet the solution to my next murder mystery series that those diamonds and black pearls around her neck aren’t glass.

“Winnie. What genre do you write?”

Interesting. She didn’t ask about the titles of my books. “Mystery. Sometimes cozy, occasionally noir, but mainly thriller. Are you a reader?” We’re usually a voracious bunch.

“Not like I wish I was. My work takes most of my time. Do you know what’s planned for our evening? Mindy mentioned that Dahlia had come up with some exciting events for us.”

“Exciting might not be the word I would use.” Scary. Terrifying.

“What would you use?” Winnie turns towards the group.

“Fun.” Hopefully.

“Is your group as eclectic as ours?” Her eyes stop on Savie knitting away while talking.

They have a group. What kind? The other women don’t seem alike in any way. Oh. I love a good mystery. “Yup.”

The doorbell rings. Dahlia has more friends?

She’s in the middle of what seems to be a deep conversation. “Excuse me a moment.” I make my way over to the door and open it.

“Knight!” Every time this man stands in front of me, I have a hard time believing he’s real. Not that Knight has that fake model perfection going. It’s more like how could a man like him really exist.

“Hey, Dylan.”

The room goes silent.

What happened? I turn to face them as Knight steps in.

Maverick is back. That sounded wrong. He lives here and was only in the backyard playing poker with some guys. But he’s standing at the edge of the kitchen with thunderclouds for eyes.

Whatever irritated him doesn’t matter. Everyone should just back away slowly before he explodes.

Dahlia seems completely oblivious to his ire as she strides over to him with a smile on her face.

“Why is he here?” Maverick nods towards Knight. “You didn’t need to invite the whole world to poker.”

Dahlia turns towards us and waves. “Hey, Knight. Thank you for coming. We should be ready to leave in a few minutes.”

Maverick pulls her in closer, grabbing her attention again. “Dahl.”

She pats his chest. “Don’t worry. Knight isn’t here for the poker game. He’s coming with us.”

“What?”

Okay, I didn’t even imagine this murder scene. Crimes of passion are so expected in the world of mystery that people rarely bother writing them anymore. But Maverick might lose his mind on her tonight.

“All of my writing group was invited to tonight’s festivities and Knight is one of us.”

I should look away and give them privacy for this conversation. But it kind of feels like a car wreck that you can’t take your eyes off of even knowing you should look away.

“If he goes, I should be able to.”

“No.” Dahlia pushes up on her toes and gives him a peck on his lips. “Now go have fun with your friends. We’ll be home before sunrise. Hopefully.”

Just how much of that list does she want to check off?

I peek over at Knight. This has got to be very uncomfortable for him. The mercurial man stands there half- smirking, half-smiling, like it’s to be expected that people will fight over him all the time.

That’s such a Knight thing to do.

He wanders over to Daria. The two of them fall into a comfortable world of their own. He’s older than her, but they would make a cute couple.

“What’s his story?” Winnie asks from right next to me.

Has she been there all along? How did I miss her?

“Knight’s?” I don’t wait for her to clarify her question, because there’s no way I’m even trying to explain Maverick.

“I don’t know.” Daria might know, but I doubt she’ll spill.

Visually, he’s a series of contrasts. When he walked in the door, Knight embodied a slick player.

Now, he’s morphed into a friend. His dedication to empathetic charity work could only be from someone who suffered agonizing pain. Knight without a shirt…

With as wild as tonight might get, it’s possible that could happen again. The new people might go feral. Who am I kidding? I might too.

It’s going to be one interesting night.