You Are Fatally Invited

by Ande Pliego

Which meant that one of the authors on the island was lying. One of them was Alastor. And I’d helped him plan a murder retreat.

I could almost pretend Mila was her, making her mother one last cup.

I hadn’t quite lied about my husband Michael dying, you see. He’d been in New York, and I’d been in San Francisco. I’d just taken great care to make sure I was.

I hadn’t written any deaths in a library. Ah, well—leave that to someone younger than me.

“What are you doing, calling me ‘Tim’? Alluding to our ‘history’?”

“I knew the Great Thomas Fletcher would be here, not you. Perhaps you should’ve alerted your address book of your name change.”

Petrichor. Lovely word.

They’d find my real name, and how it was linked to his, and how that link would be excellent motive for his murder.

“I didn’t really bring outdoor clothes.”

So no era ella en el boathouse?

An Ecology of Scars,

Now, I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about her was—off.

“More coffee,” Fletcher said, lifting his mug without looking up, “would be lovely.”

It would’ve been perfect. You were alone, before dawn, by the edge of the icy water.

I’d known I was always desperate for revenge, but this—what was this? What else was I so desperate for?

Olivia, regardless of whatever she’d done to earn it, had become a widow through the most horrific circumstances. Could anyone ever deserve that?

Violet’s section housed half a shelf of exclusive editions. My own slender book followed

Why in the world she’d given up solos to join forces with Rodrigo was beyond me—but then, that probably wasn’t the most charitable thing to think of the dead.

Maybe cause she needed an excuse to cover how her writting wasnt actually hers??

I slid it back onto the shelf, next to the muddy-green-and-blue spine of my own book.

With Jia and Colton’s story out of my head, I’d finally let go, been able to move on. No more nightmares. Until now. How the hell could Alastor know?

An image flashed through my head: a tall man holding a dark-haired woman on the dock as she doubled over, screamed at the lake.

I’d had years of experience making sure I hadn’t missed any stray spatters of blood or hair (you had to, when dealing with dead bodies)—what if she’d missed something?

“Is there a key to the boathouse?” Violet said, homing in on me.

Its her then. Cause she knows its locked

I didn’t know what she’d done, but no one deserved to see their loved one strung up like Rodrigo had been.

Okay so confirmed es violet

“Right, thanks,” Fletcher said into the awkwardness, flapping a hand at me, “but I’d rather you leave the room while we discuss this.” Small smile, eyes flaring. “You being our infernal host’s assistant, after all.”

I hate this man so much

“Meaning,” Violet said slowly, sinking down into Mila’s leather chair behind the desk,

The symbolism

“Didn’t you hear the help?

SHE HAS A NAME

Mila, a snake winding up her arm, Taryn with her sparkly makeup, and Curtis wielding a chef’s knife.

The Child Murderer.

The Exploiter The Drug Dealer The Perjurer The Poisoner

The Thief The Host The Accomplice

The Serial Killer

The Housekeeper The Lawyer The Mentor The Therapist The Chef The Housewife The Detective The Event Coordinator The Prodigy

“My debut. The idea’s not entirely mine.”

according to this, there’s a card for Alastor’s accomplice, and another one for the killer, implying they’re different.

“It means,” I said slowly, “that if this game is to be believed, and we match the sins to our characters, we’ll be left with who Alastor really is.”

The latest Val Lamont book (Every Death You Fake) had a butcher knife against a purple cover, a woman’s face silhouetted in the blade’s reflection.

The last book on the table was her solo debut, The Apartment Complex. I thought with a pang about my version upstairs that’d been marked up to within an inch of its life. Olivia’d said the idea hadn’t been completely hers, but what the hell did that mean?

If I survived this, I’d start writing rom-coms.

John Wick had it right—sometimes a dog could make all the difference.

Ash—paperback Mila—snakeskin Fletch—fountain pen Violet—dead bird Rodrigo—map to his body Olivia—preserved plant thing Cassandra—black widow (representing her killing her husbands)

Ash—paperback—Detective Mila—snakeskin—Event Coordinator

Fletch—fountain pen—Therapist Violet—dead bird—Prodigy Rodrigo—map to his body—Lawyer Olivia—preserved plant thing—Housewife? Cassandra—black widow (representing her killing her husbands)—Mentor?

Taryn—Housekeeper Curtis—Chef

Mila—snakeskin—Event Coordinator—Accomplice? Fletch—fountain pen—Therapist—Exploiter?? Violet—dead bird—Prodigy—? Rodrigo—map to his body—Lawyer—Perjurer? Olivia—preserved plant thing—Housewife—Thief?? Exploiter?? Cassandra—black widow (representing her killing her husbands)—Mentor?—The Serial Killer???

I hesitated, then filled in the only sin I was one hundred percent certain of. The black ink glistened on the page. Child Murderer.

An ache spasmed up my neck as I craned to look at the clock, which stood on the nightstand next to the marble bust of Julius Caesar.

Ay no

If one of them was going to die, hopefully it’d be Carter, the whinger.

In light of Rodrigo expiring in the same manner as a character in his book, I traversed to the window, wrenched it open, and released Caesar into the garden.

JAJAJA

Footsteps pattered away down the corridor, short and light like a child’s. How very terrifying.

The only other death was laughably impossible, for me, anyway.