Page 92 of Evidence of a Folktale

“The show must go on, you know? This could change everything for me.”

Bel’s mouth fell open, but no words came out. How was this happening? Why did no one care about the four dead crew members? Eamon believed a deal was to blame, and staring at Beau Draven, she knew her millionaire was right.

“What did you do?” She grabbed the actor’s arm and pulled him to the snowy trees lining the road. “I know what this is about. I know you did something.”

Beau’s handsome face paled, and for a moment, he stood more frozen than the ice-coated branches. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“What did you do?” Bel repeated, pulling the taller man closer. The actor might play a cop, but he was no match for the scowling reality that stood a foot shorter than him.

“Nothing.” His voice was unconvincing as his eyes flicked to something over her head. Cameramen were starting to take note of their conversation, and while Jerry graciously tried to force their focus to the investigation, the gorgeous actor being harassed by a detective was a treat they couldn’t resist.

“Your phone stays in your pocket.” She released his arm and stepped away. “If I see you filming again, you won’t get it back.”

Before he could respond, she stalked to Eamon’s side, her rage boiling so forcefully that she slipped her hand around her boyfriend’s and squeezed hard enough to break a human’s bones. “I don’t know if it’s a deal, but something won’t let this show shut down,” she hissed at him. “Something wants this crew dead, and we need to find it before these deaths ruin our town.”

“I don’t think the deal is in Bajka.” He dragged her closer. An inch of air separated them, but his strength radiated off his body to steady her. “If he’s the killer, he only steps inside town limits to kill and then retreats, otherwise I’d scent someone powerful enough to wield black magic.”

“Did you smell something in the cabin?” Bel jerked her head at the crime scene.

“Yes.” He nodded. “But the doors were open and hours had passed, so it dissipated.”

“But it’s not black magic?”

“No.”

“So, the killer isn’t the deal.”

“Not necessarily,” he explained. “If a deal was made, it was struck years ago, so no magic transferred between bodies during the killings. He left enough of a trace to warn he isn’t human, but that’s it.”

“Regardless, he has one more debt to collect,” Bel said, setting her sights on Beau Draven. “And I can guess who the last man standing is.”

“Detective, can I talk to you?”Deputy Rollo asked when Bel walked through the station doors later that afternoon.

“Of course.” She gestured for the visibly upset officer to sit at her desk, and she prayed his distress wasn’t bad news about Violet.

“I’m worried it’s my fault the director is dead,” he said, and Bel sank to her chair. That wasn’t the direction she’d expected this conversation to take.

“What do you mean?” she asked, forcing her features to remain neutral.

“I was on patrol at the bed-and-breakfast last night, and I remember your neighbor,” he said. “The inn started serving drinks because the cast and crew were nervous to leave once it got dark, so it’s common for dates to show up. Your neighbor stopped by, and hours later, at around 1:45 a.m., she stumbled out into the cold. She was drunk, and I panicked. I didn’t want an intoxicated woman getting into an accident or freezing to death, so I called her a cab. I stayed by her side until the driver arrived andthenpacked her into the car myself. I thought I was helping, but now I think it was a ploy to keep me from noticing the director’s escape.”

“I swear to god, these people want me to strangle them.” Bel rubbed the exasperation from her face and then reached out to grip his forearm. “Don’t blame yourself. This isn’t your fault. It was freezing, and you did the right thing by helping my drunk neighbor. I agree it was a distraction, though. Rouge probably snuck out while you kept Chloe from passing out in the parking lot. The cab most likely picked him up down the street.”

“Logically, I know you’re right. It’s not my fault the costume designer left for snacks or that a drunk woman took advantage of my concern to sneak the director out, but I still feel responsible.”

“And two women were murdered on my boyfriend’s property. The producer was killed on mine, and the director down the street from my house,” Bel said. “It’s easy to assume responsibility, but this isn’t on us. We’re cops, not bodyguards. You couldn’t have known she was lying. Besides, my neighbor admitted to being drunk last night, so while she was exaggerating for your benefit, it wasn’t far from the truth.”

“I just feel awful,” Rollo said.

“I know. Me too.” Bel released his arm.

“Hey,” Olivia interrupted them. “We checked the front door’s lock.”

“You’re busy.” The deputy stood. “I’ll let you get back to work. Thanks, Detective.”

“Of course.” Bel smiled at him, earning a criminally attractive grin in return, and she hated that Olivia and Ewan might never rejoin their friend group. She’d been looking forward to a future of couples’ dates.

“Chloe Rider’s house showed no signs of forced entry.” Olivia sat in Rollo’s vacated seat. “There aren’tevenscratches on the lock to suggest someone picked it.”

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