Page 7 of The Murder Club

“Hey, Bailey.” The young woman seated behind the reception desk waved her hand to catch Bailey’s attention. Melissa Eastman had graduated from Pike High School the same year as Bailey. She was tall and stocky, with long, black hair and an infectious grin. “You’re wanted in the pit of doom.” Melissa shuddered. “Immediately.”

“The pit of doom” was the name the staff used for the owner’s private office. Bailey nodded, but she continued toward the break room.

“I’ll go in a minute. I have something I need to take care of first.”

Melissa shrugged. “Your funeral.”

“Thanks.”

She entered the room that was reserved for the employees. It was a long space, with a small kitchen in the back and lockers that lined one wall. There were a couple of tables and chairs in the middle of the tiled floor and a ratty couch shoved against the opposite wall. Overhead, a drop ceiling gave the room a claustrophobic vibe that wasn’t helped by the line of fluorescent lights that constantly flickered. Bailey was convinced that one day they were going to induce a seizure.

As expected, Eric Criswell was slumped on the couch, his phone in his hand. He had thin, black hair that was roughly chopped, as if he cut it himself, and pale skin that had a jaundiced tint. His eyes were gray and deeply sunken into his thin face. He looked like a man who didn’t venture into the sun, preferring the shadows.

Bailey headed to her locker, pulling off her sweater to hang it inside along with her purse, then snapping it shut, and she turned to casually stroll toward the couch.

“Eric,” she murmured.

The boy—and as far as Bailey was concerned he was still a boy despite the fact he was twenty-two years old—abruptly lifted his head and blinked in surprise. He’d been so engrossed in his phone he hadn’t even noticed her entering the room.

“Oh.” His face flushed with pleasure. “Hey, Bailey.”

“Do you have a minute?”

“For you?” His lips stretched into a smile. “Always.”

“You didn’t text me this morning, did you?”

“Text you?” He blinked. “No. I don’t even have your number.”

Bailey narrowed her eyes. Her number was listed in the employee handbook in case of emergencies. Why was he lying?

Deciding to confront him directly, she held out her phone and turned it so he could see the screen.

“I got this.”

“‘The club is officially open. Ready or not,’” he read out loud. Glancing up, he shook his head in confusion, his thin hair flopping. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.” She slid her phone in the front pocket of her scrubs. “That’s why I was asking you.”

“Why would you think I sent you the text?”

“The only game I’ve ever played is the Murder Club.”

Eric pinched his lips, as if she’d said something offensive. “It’s not technically a game, it’s a—”

“Whatever,” she interrupted his chiding. Eric was shy and awkward most of the time, but when he was discussing his favorite hobbies he could go on forever. “I’ve been getting strange invites to a new game. That’s why I deleted my account a couple of weeks ago.”

“I noticed you scrubbed your profile. A shame.” He sounded genuinely disappointed. “You’re really good at spotting clues that the rest of us miss.”

“Thanks. It was fun for a while, but I’m done.” She paused. “It wasn’t you, was it? Sending the invites to a private murder club?”

He gave a sharp shake of his head. “I don’t know anything about them. If I wanted you to join a private club, I’d just ask you. We see each other every day.”

He had a point. So, if the text wasn’t from Eric, who’d sent it?

“Do you happen to know the other members of the club?”

“Just by their online profiles.”

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