The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year

by Ally Carter

If anyone has ever tried to gaslight you into thinking you’re the problem, congratulations! This book is for you.

Excerpt from the Official Police Interrogation of Margaret Chase and Ethan Wyatt

Ms. Chase: Well, of course I have his blood on my hands. Mr. Wyatt: It was just a scratch. Ms. Chase: I obviously didn’t try to kill him. Mr. Wyatt: Maggie’s more of a lover than a—

Ms. Chase: Of course, I’m not offended that you’d accuse me of murder. I’m offended you’d think I’d be bad at

Ms. Chase: You should have separated us, you know? We shouldn’t be together for this. Not that we’re together! Oh no! We are not a we. He is he and I am me and we are not . . . Mr. Wyatt: We’re colleagues. Ms. Chase: I prefer nemesis. Nemesis is a far better word.

One Week Earlier It wasn’t until the elevator doors were sliding open that Maggie realized she was about to come face-to-face with her three least favorite things in the world:

Christmas. A party. And Ethan Freaking Wyatt.

At the very least she should have reached for the button and made the elevator doors close faster—and maybe she would have if a voice hadn’t cried out, “Oh my gosh. You’re here!”

Which was when Maggie knew she’d made a terrible mistake. She should have slipped away when she’d had the chance, down in the elevator. Through the lobby.

Then out onto the cold and crowded streets of Midtown Manhattan seven days before Christmas. She should have gotten out of there—and she would have—if Cardboard Ethan hadn’t distracted her. But now it was too late and two tiny but deceptively viselike hands were draggi...

“In large enough quantities, everyone’s a dog,” Maggie pointed out as she slowly turned to face the woman beside her.

“I say all this because I am going to murder you.” “Who? Me?” Deborah brought one tiny hand to her chest. “Yes, you! It’s just lunch, Maggie. You need to get out of the house, Maggie. We need to talk marketing, Maggie.” “One, I don’t sound like that.” “You sound exactly like that.” “And two—” “This is a party, Deborah. There is a tree made out of paperbacks right over there. Half the marketing department is singing karaoke. And . . .”

“What about him?” Maggie pointed to Cardboard Ethan and Deborah had the good taste to look guilty. “I’m told it’s not exactly to scale.” But then a thought occurred to Maggie. “Ooh. Can I have it when this is over? I’ve been wanting to learn how to throw knives.”

But then the elevator dinged. The doors slid open and a deep voice boomed, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” First, he spotted the cutout. “Well, who’s this handsome fella?” Then he spotted her. “Hey! It’s good to see you, Marcie!” And Maggie started looking for some tinsel.

Maggie hadn’t always hated Christmas. There had been a time when she’d loved the lights and the presents and the trees. She knew all the words to at least thirty different Christmas carols and used to sing them in July.

She had a sweatshirt with a reindeer on it that she always wore to school on the Monday after Thanksgiving. (Did the nose light up? Yes, yes it did. Did she wear it that way? Absolutely.)

Twelve-year-old Maggie had baked sugar cookies and organized Secret Santas and terrorized her mother with multipart questions like (1) Why don’t we have a big family? and (2) Why don’t we spend Christmas with our big (fictional) family? and (3) Can this fictional gathering...

So the problem wasn’t that Maggie hated Christmas; the problem was that Christmas hated Maggie. Every terrible thing that had ever happened to her had occurred with a backdrop of carols and lights, and, eventually, Maggie had no choice but to start taking it personally.

Her dog ran away when she was thirteen. When she was sixteen, their car caught fire and the next day all the presents disappeared out from under the tree. A week later, the car was running again and Maggie never asked a single question.

Her senior year of high school, they did have snow, but it knocked out power to half the state and Maggie spent the holiday huddled around the fireplace with ...

Of course, at the time, she didn’t know that was the last Christmas they’d have together. She’d joked about how next year would be better—telling her parents they had to wait until she was home from college to put up the tree and wrap the presents. But twelve months later, her parents were gone and Maggie was alone and . . . “I need to go.” De...

“I have a surprise for you.” Deborah eased into her leather chair then tossed something onto the stack of manuscripts that rimmed her massive desk. It was just an envelope, square and the color of eggshells, but for some reason Maggie was almost afraid to touch it.

“Oh. I’m afraid I . . . uh . . . didn’t do cards this year.” “You never do cards and neither do I. That’s not from me.” The card was heavy in Maggie’s hand when she reached for it. The paper was smooth and soft and— Money. The envelope felt like money in every sense of the word.

Her name was scrawled across the front in the most pristine handwriting she’d ever ...

“Well. Open it,” Deborah dared, and Maggie turned the envelope over to break the wax seal on the back. The card inside was even softe...

“You haven’t even read it!” Maggie couldn’t help but whine, “You tricked me into coming to one party just so you could invite me to another one?” Deborah’s laugh was almost maniacal. “Oh, that’s no invitation, swe...

Maggie had known Deborah for almost nine years, but she’d never seen her look like she looked then: giddy and sly and almost ravenous. She imagined that’s how nineteen-year-old Deborah must have looked when she’d pulled Eleanor Ashley’s first manuscript from the pile on th...

“You’ve been invited to the home of your biggest fan for Christmas.” “Deborah—” “In England!” Deborah said with a flourish, as if that made everything better and not infinitely worse. “Al...

“You’re crazy! Do I need to remind you that I write mysteries?” “So?” “So my fans like murder! And murderers! And—” “Your last book was about a woman whose cat could smell poison.” “Hey! The Purrrrfect Crime sold very well in Brazil,” Maggie said, but Deborah was det...

“I can personally vouch for this particular fan. And I’m telling you”—she lowered her voice—“you want to get on that plane. You are positively dying to get on that plane.” Maggie ran a finger over the heavy paper. It really was a lovely card. “I don’t want to spend...

“Then who are you spending Christmas with? Because you know I’m a heartless old crone but when I think of you rattling around that tiny apartment all by yourself . . .” “I’m on deadline.” Maggie held the words like a shield. “I’m your e...

“Have nothing planned for Christmas, do you?” Deborah glanced toward her open door. The sounds of the party were a low din in the distance, but she inched forward, arms on the desk. It was a...

“Look, I don’t want to get your hopes up, but something is coming next year. Very big. Very hush-hush. And I think you’re the person for the job. But I need you to get on that plane.” Maggie fingered the wax seal on the back of the envelope. “What kind of fan flies their favorite author to another country for the holidays?” “The kind w...

“Oh.” Deborah laughed. “It is.” “This can’t be—” “Maggie. Dearest. Most prolific and professional writer I know, I say this with love. I say this with kindness. I say this in the truest...

Deborah had never steered her wrong—not once in nine years and dozens of books. Deborah believed in her. Deborah wanted the best for her. Deborah was the closest thing Maggie had to family, which was perhaps the only thing sadder than having no family at all. And all Maggie could do w...

“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I have to get a Christmas.” “Okay.” Deborah sat back. “Then what does the next week and a half look like for you? Sitting around, thinking about your former husband and your forme...

Twelve Years Ago It wasn’t that Maggie’s parents hadn’t wanted a big family. It was more like they’d never really learned how to have one. They’d been older when Maggie was born, and sometimes she got the feeling they were like the staff of a restaurant, ready to close up and go home when she’d stumbled in five minutes before closing.

She was already back on campus when she got the call, alone in her dorm room when a stranger told her about the accident. She was alone when she went back to Florida to pack up the condo and sell the golf carts and ship a half-dozen boxes to a storage unit not far from campus.

“But what if . . .” She’d never had to say the words out loud before. “What if you don’t have one?” Her voice cracked, and her eyes watered and maybe that’s why he didn’t quite get it as he glanced back over his shoulder. “What?” “My parents died and the golf carts were nonrefundable and I need the condo money for tuition.”

At that moment, pity was almost all she had going for her. “I can’t go home.” She ran a hand over her eyes like she could push the tears back in. When that didn’t work, she looked away. “I don’t have one.”

“Look, I’m really sorry. But . . .” His voice was lower, softer. Closer. “They turn down the heat and cut the lights. There’s no food. There’s no heat. It’s three weeks. You literally cannot stay here.”

“You could come home with me,” a voice said from behind her. And that’s how she met Emily. And that was the beginning of everything. Even the end.

Maggie was fine. Really. She was totally and completely— Resigned. Yeah. That was more like it. She’d learned long ago that the firsts are always the hardest. The first birthday. The first round of holidays, cycling throughout the year. But the year was almost over, and her first Christmas was coming, so she might as well experience her first party, soldier through and get it out of the way.

before Ethan Wyatt started a conga line. “How’s it going, Marcie?” he shouted as he congaed by, and Maggie started doing Party Math in her head.

If she hid for thirty minutes, then waved at three more people on her way to the elevator, maybe no one would notice if she spent the rest of the party hiding in an empty room, reading her Purse Book and eating her Napkin Cheese. It was a genius plan, really. She should have thought of it from the start.

If Killhaven were a high school, then Ethan was the golden boy, player of sports and breaker of hearts. The kind of guy who could get voted prom king at a school he didn’t even go to.

Meanwhile, Lance and the other Leather Jacket Guys were nothing more than Ethan’s asshole acolytes. Or Assolytes, as Maggie liked to call them. She half expected Lance to offer to polish Ethan’s leather jacket or do his homework. Maybe dispose of a body.

“Yo. Man. Did you see the ice queen?” “Who?” Ethan sounded like he was only half listening—like maybe even the Assolytes were beneath him. “That Maggie chick. You know. That one who thinks she’s the queen of the cozies.” La...

“Why?” Was Ethan’s voice sharper than usual? She couldn’t tell. “Is she sick or something?” “No, man. She got divorced. And her husband took everything. It was a whole thing. Messed her up. She...

“That’s agoraphobic—” “—in like forever.” The hallway was a little too quiet for a little too long and Maggie started to worry they were going to hear her hea...