Page 6 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

Upstairs Study Balcony

“Say, how ya doing, darling?” Everett asked, leaning over the railing and looking out at the newly built Golden Gate Bridge, lit up in the darkness.

It was a sight to behold at night—a modern marvel.

Celestine was glad Everett was merely looking at the bridge instead of drunkenly walking on it again.

Celestine had once had to pull him off the railing.

He had climbed up in a drunken stupor and balanced on it quite impressively—but it was unclear what his true intentions were.

The man was reckless.

“Fine.” She smiled with her teeth.

“You seem it.” Everett raised an unconvinced raven-black eyebrow and took a drag from his blunt. “Of all people, you can level with me. You stabbed James seventeen times, doll. You don’t walk away from a murder like that saying you’re fine.”

Celestine blinked twice, reeling. Everett rarely solved the crimes on his own. “When did you figure it out?”

“The first time you met my gaze.”

Celestine bit her lip and reached for the blunt, and when he handed it over, she took a long hit.

“It wasn’t the evidence that tipped me off. It was you.” He waved at her. “You might be able to pull the wool over everyone else’s eyes, but not mine. You’re coming undone, Celestial. And let’s get one thing straight: only one of us gets to fall apart tonight, and it’s not you.”

Everett had three nicknames for her that he cycled through. This one he only used when he was being affectionate.

Celestine let out a long breath. “Ah, so that’s why you offered me the smoke.”

“Oh doll, I never need an excuse to take you to cloud nine.” He winked. “But yes, I am the Ashbrook of distractions, and since you’re currently in an amorous relationship with my cousin, we will have to settle for drugs and not sex.”

“Everett.” Celestine playfully hit his arm. But he wasn’t wrong. He was her favorite Ashbrook because he was the fun one, but he was also gently blunt and honest, which she appreciated. Unlike James, who callously spoke his mind without hesitation.

He was also her favorite because he was the most open with her.

Now, that didn’t mean he told her everything, far from it.

All Ashbrooks kept secrets in a crypt with no name or discernible location.

Nearly impossible to uncover. Everett was no exception, but at least he wasn’t cagey—like the other three.

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 and inventing 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.

“Like hell you are. You look like a ghostly child coming back to haunt the room,” Frances said.

Freckles and wrinkles lined her face, neck, and hands, and her voice cracked from a lifetime of overuse on the world’s grand stages.

At Wolfsbane, she typically played roles like the concerned grandmother or the overly invested housekeeper—the Specter liked to give people parts that matched their personalities.

It was also why Celestine always referred to her as the Mother Hen, because she coddled everyone she met.

Celestine appreciated the gesture. She needed a family, even if it were a makeshift one held together by scraps and the Specter’s generosity.

“Eat up.” Frances handed Celestine a plate with a peanut butter and jam sandwich diced into little square bites, as if the older woman thought it would be too straining for Celestine to have a whole sandwich. Celestine pursed her lips. Everyone treated her like a highly breakable porcelain doll.

It was so frustrating. She was fine, but she had to admit in this case, Frances was right.

Celestine needed food, so she took a bite as Dean appeared at her side.

She jumped, rattled by his quick appearance—possibly a magical one.

Dean also had the Specter’s elixir swimming in his veins.

He was also able to manipulate the house and cast spells. Spells like invisibility.

Celestine shuddered. The man was like a vampire.

“Are you ready to be put out of your misery?” Dean asked.

Ten words.

“Please,” Celestine breathed.

Dean stepped toward the center of the ballroom, but Frances caught his sleeve. “Wait, boy. What did you mean by that?” She glared between the Brooding Bad Boy and the Blonde Ingénue. “No,” Frances gasped. “The Specter made you the murderer…again?”

“Yes.” Celestine wrung her hands.

“I thought you were going to tell him never to do that again.” Fury danced on Frances’s face.

Celestine chewed on her cheeks. “I was but—”

“But what?”

“I couldn’t.”

Dean watched the exchange silently, a dark amusement coloring his features.

“Why not?” Frances asked.

Because I love him . “Because I owe him everything. He saved me.” Celestine’s voice wobbled. “I’d be starving on the streets if it weren’t for him.” I’d be dead.

“We all owe him, but you don’t owe him your life or sanity, Celeste.” Frances rubbed Celestine’s back in soft circles. Everyone at Wolfsbane Hall called her something different. “You’re too fragile to continue having nights like this. They’re making you sick.”

Celestine knew it, but what could be done about it? She couldn’t anger the Specter. He might throw her out. At the thought, a shudder coursed through Celestine’s skin like a termite eating its way through wood. The murders were making her sick, but what could she do?

Nothing .

“Child,” Frances’s voice softened, “you can’t go on like this.”

“I know.” A soft sob escaped Celestine’s lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, darling.” Frances stroked Celestine’s blonde locks. “Emotion is not weakness.”

No, weakness was weakness, and Celestine was carved of it. She didn’t have a strong bone in her body; from her pathetic heart to her frail muscles to her fragile mind, she was made of straw like that silly little pig’s house from the nursery rhyme.

“Shall I end the show, then?” Dean directed the question at Frances.

“Yes.” The older woman nodded and clutched Celestine’s fingers within hers.

As Dean walked to the center of the room, soft music began to play from hidden speakers. Violin strings plucked out a twisted yet thrilling song. Setting the stage for Dean’s show-ending monologue—setting the stage for an entertaining climax.

Celestine didn’t understand why he had waited the entire night, and only acted with fifteen minutes left to go. He could’ve claimed the honor of being the fastest person to unmask a Specter mystery—ever. A prestigious title. But still, he chose not to.

Why?

Dean Ashbrook wasn’t chivalrous. He wasn’t good. He was a nightmare dressed as a man. He was a riddle not meant to be unraveled.