On the wall, the second hand of a clock inched toward twelve and the start of the meeting.
Lena and I nudged our way through the tall people at the back of the crowd, looking for a place to stand where we could actually see the town council.
“Is it always this crowded?” I asked, trying to keep up with Lena as she skirted a bulky old-fashioned slide projector in the middle of the room.
“Definitely not,” she said over the murmur of the crowd. “It’s because of Harold.”
The people behind the dais started to take their seats, and I clocked each member of the town council as they got settled behind their respective nameplates: Doug Haversham, Ellen Roscoe, Thomas Ashcroft, Marlene Pruitt.
My pulse kicked up a notch when my gaze landed on the name of the final member: Victor Ames.
“Victor’s a member of the town council?”
“Not technically,” Lena said. “He doesn’t get a vote or anything. He’s just here to shill for Hearthstone.”
Dressed in tailored pants and a crisp button-down shirt, Victor Ames looked to be in his late thirties, with an angular face and coiffed brown hair. He took his seat at the end of the dais and I wondered if it was my imagination that the rest of the town council avoided his eyes.
When everyone was seated, there was one empty chair, and I realized it had probably been Harold Pembroke’s seat.
I turned my attention to the familiar faces in the crowd, most of them already seated. Rosie sat on one side of the room — Mayor Biscuit sitting politely next to her, panting on his leash — while Lyle stood on the other side of the room, one hand resting on the stroller where Cleopatra sat regally within its cushioned interior. Jared was there too, sitting next to Sheriff Crowe, in uniform, the two of them chatting like old friends.
Clara sat next to the woman I’d seen in the window of the antique shop, her thin shoulders draped with multicolored scarves. Her black hair trailed down her back, which was ramrod straight, like she might have been a dancer, and she wore sharp black eyeliner, her lips carefully outlined and filled in with bright red lipstick.
Bastien turned in his seat to scan the room and waved when he caught my eye. Next to him, Gabriel surveyed his fingernails like he was already bored out of his mind.
Lena and I found a place near the front of the standing crowd just as an older man walked to the podium to the left of the dais. His white hair was neatly combed, his face flushed, and cheerful yellow ducks marched up the blue tie he’d paired with a rumpled, slightly outdated suit.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” His glasses slid down his nose and he moved to push them back into place.
“Mayor Penbury!” a middle-aged woman in a smart skirt suit called out. “Daphne Sinclair withThe Hollow Herald. What do you say to residents worried about the serial killer on the loose?”
The man — the mayor apparently — sighed. “Miss Sinclair, this is a small town. We’ll take questions at the end of the meeting, just like always. And there is no evidence that Blackwell Hollow has a serial killer.”
The crowd erupted.
“— then who —?”
“He’s not telling us?— ”
“— a conspiracy, mark my words.”
Mayor Penbury held up a hand. “We can’t hold the meeting if everyone is talking at once.”
The volume lowered a notch, indignant shouts turning to hissed whispers.
“First things first,” Mayor Penbury said, his watery gaze scanning the crowd. “Sheriff Crowe, would you like to give a statement?”
Sheriff Crowe stood, climbed over the legs of the people sitting around her, and made her way to the dais.
Mayor Penbury stepped back and Sheriff Crowe stood at the podium.
“Good evening.” Her voice was clear and confident as she spoke into the microphone. “As many of you know, one of our residents, Harold Pembroke, was found dead five days ago on Evelyn Whitaker’s property.”
“Sheriff Crowe,” the reporter called out, “Daphne Sinclair withThe Hollow Herald?— ”
Sheriff Crowe sighed. “I know who you are, Daphne. We just had lunch.”
“What do you say about rumors that Harold Pembroke’s killer is a member of the town council?”