Prologue
Delilah
Past—Nine Years Ago
My curtain of black hair hides me from the room as I continue the drawing in my sketchbook. Two dancers on stage, spines tall as they face the audience but look at each other, arms fully extended and hands barely touching. Bust modest, her black-and-silver tutu flares with jagged edges over dark tights and pointe shoes. Topless, his black performance tights hug his muscular legs like a second skin, black ballet slippers on his feet.
Shoes clap and occasionally squeak against the linoleum, followed by the distinct scrape of chair legs. Groans over waking up early for the first time in months and not having enough caffeine before returning to school are the chorus of the day. Hints of pine, ash, citrus, and earth linger in the air.
The short ring of the one-minute warning bell echoes through the halls.
Straightening in my seat, I close my sketchbook and stow my pencils back in the case. On a quick scan of the room, I note the majority of the seats are filled, but a handful remain unoccupied, including one at my table. As the seconds to the final bell tick by, more students rush the room and hustle to the first empty chair they find.
And just when I think I will have the entire table to myself this semester, one last person bolts in the room a second before the late bell.
Phoebe Graves.
“Damn,” I mumble under my breath and swallow.
Vibrant, auburn, bouncy waves frame her creamy, freckled skin. A light smoky eye makes her Nordic-blue irises pop more than usual. Red lipstick—her signature since freshman year—perfectly painted on her supple lips. Snug on her frame, the V of her burnt-orange dress exposes more cleavage than appropriate at school.
Will the school staff reprimand her? Will she be asked to change clothes?
Not if the staff want to keep their jobs.
Two words easily sum up Phoebe Graves—fire and ice—not just in looks but also personality.
But knowing as much doesn’t stop my breath from hitching or pulse from soaring.
Stupid freaking hormones.
I blame romance novels for perpetuating my crush on Phoebe. For sustaining the endless fantasies I’ve had for years. Damn enemies-to-lovers trope always giving me hope.
Phoebe says something to Ms. Napoli, and the teacher points to the vacant chair on my left. Icy eyes stare at the empty seat for a beat until they meet my gaze. In a blink, the hint of annoyance in her expression morphs into borderline fury as she makes her way to the table.
But I brush it off with a subtle smile.
I have never taken Phoebe’s hostile demeanor and behavior personally. The girl wouldn’t know what a close friend is if one bit her in the ass. And since no one walks the halls with her, strikes up conversations with her or laughs with her, I refuse to hate Phoebe Graves like most of the student body at Stone Bay High.
Because everyone deserves a chance.
“Hey,” I say, lifting my hand in a half-hearted wave as she takes the seat on my left. “I’m Delilah.”
Eyes aimed at the teacher, her lips form a tight, synthetic smile for half a second before indifference consumes her expression. “Don’t really care.”
A low tone vibrates throughout the room and conversations cease as the class turns its attention to the front of the room. Rubber mallet in her hand, Ms. Napoli circles the outside of a crystal singing bowl with slow, even movements.
I close my eyes and let the soft frequency settle in my bones and clear my mind. I find peace within myself at the start of the day and a new school year, shaking off every ounce of negativity.
Seeing as my parents own the only metaphysical shop within a hundred miles, I am familiar with all things love and light and divination. This also means I am familiar with naysayers and cruelty, whom I do my best to ignore. Why waste my energy or voice?
“Fucking ridiculous,” Phoebe mutters, garnering a laugh from nearby tables.
Ms. Napoli sets down the mallet, the low vibration fading into silence. “Good morning, class. Welcome back. I trust your summer was much more enjoyable than being here.”
Titters float through the air as she faces the dry-erase board and writes.
“But at least your day starts with art and not math.” She caps the marker, sets it on the tray, and spins around to scan the tables. “I’m Ms. Napoli and this is Painting I. Some of you may be here to earn that final, pesky art half credit. Others may be here because art runs in their veins.” She presses her palms together in prayer and shares a gentle smile. “Either way, I’m glad to have you in my classroom.”
Beside me, Phoebe groans as she flips a spiral notebook open and uncaps a fountain pen. With a practiced flourish, the metal tip of the pen glides over the paper, black ink spilling from the tip. From the corner of my eye, I peek at the elegant letters on the page. It isn’t often you see cursive-style writing nowadays. Some might say it is a dying art.
But Phoebe sweeps the ink tip over the page with ease. As if writing with such finesse and refinement was taught to her early in life. And when she reaches the end of the line, she moves to the next and writes the same thing.
Phoebe Aspen Graves, Editor-in-Chief, Stone Bay Gazette
I bite the inside of my cheek so as not to laugh. The impulse is not due to Phoebe’s ambition to be on top. More the opposite, actually.
Anyone who knows anything about the Stone Bay Seven—the town’s founding families—knows Phoebe Graves is definitely her father’s daughter. A Graves, through and through. A bloodhound, thirsty for the next juicy story.
Unfortunately for Phoebe, she won’t write anything controversial or remarkable until given a desk at the Gazette. Years from now.
“The seats you’re in now will be your seat for the semester,” Ms. Napoli announces. “And today, I want you to get to know your tablemate. Introduce yourself and make a new friend for the year.” Light chatter fills the room and Ms. Napoli softly snaps her fingers over and over. “I’ll give you ten minutes, then we’re diving into part two of knowing your tablemate—drawing them.”
Phoebe groans again as she caps her pen and stows it in her bag.
“Showcase your skills and draw a detailed, nonprovocative part of your tablemate. Their hand or fingers as they work. Perhaps their eye and brow.” Ms. Napoli waves her hands in the air. “You get the idea. Just keep it appropriate for school. Consider this a refresher from Drawing I before we dip brushes in paint and add it to paper or canvas.”
Ms. Napoli settles in her seat behind the counter at the front of the room.
At each table, students face each other and spark hushed conversations. Wanting to follow the assignment as instructed, I spin in my seat and meet Phoebe’s profile. But she doesn’t move, doesn’t engage, doesn’t give an ounce of effort.
So I put on my brightest smile and reintroduce myself. “Hi, I’m Delilah.” I offer my hand to shake. Her eyes fall to my hand, a slight curl to her upper lip. “Delilah Fox,” I clarify. “And you’re Phoebe, right?”
At my last name, she angles her body toward me. “Fox, you say?”
I trail my finger over the spiral binding of my sketchbook. “Yes.”
She hums. “As in the Fox founding family that thinks they’re too good for the rest of the founding families?”
The Fox clan isn’t oblivious to the gossip surrounding our family. Some think my grandparents stopped attending town meetings and elite events decades ago for egotistical reasons. Others whispered Zachariah and Amelia Fox couldn’t handle the responsibility that came with being part of Stone Bay’s high society.
We ignore the townsfolk’s hushed rumors, knowing they don’t hold a modicum of truth.
Cocking my head, I plaster on a smile and tell myself to kill her with kindness. “No.” My cheeks sting as I stretch my smile wider. “As in the Fox founding family that just wants to live a happy life.” I fold my hands in my lap. “Doesn’t the Graves family want a happy life?”
“Ah.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “So you know who I am.” Her head tips to the side, somewhat matching my pose. “And happiness is overrated,” she grumbles as she spins to face the front of the room.
“Says the grouchiest girl in Stone Bay.”
A mastered snarl curls her top lip as she glances in my direction. “People call me a bitch,” she says with too much ease, straightening her spine. “Doesn’t hurt my feelings. In ten years, those same people will still be at the bottom of the food chain while I sit comfortably at the top.”
Is this truly how she feels? Does Phoebe actually believe she will unlock some superior status in a certain time frame, all because of her last name? Because her ancestors and mine founded this town and built it from the ground up? Because she is Stone Bay “royalty”?
How sad.
“Sounds lonely,” I say. “But if that’s what you want…”
“Whatever.” She takes out her phone and opens a news app. “We know enough about each other. Talking time is over.”
Fine by me. Though I never want to give up on anyone, I also know when to step back and detoxify.
Taking my pencils back out, I flip my sketchbook open and turn to a blank page. Without shame, I study Phoebe’s profile, the column of her throat, the slight protrusion of her collarbones peeking out of her dress, the length of her thin biceps and forearms, the bend of her knuckles and the flawless red paint on her nails as she types on her phone.
Of all the options, I choose to draw her lips. Not the snarl she has flashed more than once. Instead, I opt to draw her lips soft and kind, with a slight upturn at the corners. A nice side of her that probably exists in the privacy of her own company.
This smile may never grace her lips, but I picture it there anyway.
Phoebe may wear the thickest armor over her heart and soul, but that means she has more to lose if there is a chink in her only form of protection.
I respect her but also grieve for her for the immeasurable pressure put on her shoulders by previous generations. For the life she will miss out on because of the shoes she is expected to fill. And for the love she deserves but refuses to accept.
She may hate me because my family chose love and joy over status and privilege, and that is her choice. But as my parents and grandparents taught me, I choose to be a good person over everything else. To do right by others and love with my whole heart.
And when the time is right, my person will come along and want all I have to offer.
Secretly, I still wish for it to be Phoebe Graves.
One
Phoebe
Present
Sweet almond and vanilla blend with a hint of musk and nuttiness as I walk through the front door of the Stone Bay Gazette. I stomp my heeled boots on the mat and shake off the last of the snow as I unwrap my scarf.
“Good morning, Ms. Graves,” Gladys greets from her reception desk, voice raspy. “Looks like we’re getting a break in the snow.”
I meet her cheery, wrinkled smile with my professional one. “Thank god.” I pass her and head for the kitchen, desperate for caffeine. “Maybe people will actually get some reporting done today.”
In the kitchen, I deposit my leftovers in the fridge and grab the hazelnut creamer. Sliding a glass under the drip, I press grind, wait for the portafilter to load, then press the proper brew button.
A few years back, I convinced Father to buy this state-of-the-art barista machine for the office. Made for people who like coffee shop beverages but not the lines or price tags, this machine makes all the fancy coffee drinks. Naturally, Father complained I was the only person in the office who wanted something other than lukewarm coffee that’d been in the pot half the day. I told him he was wrong.
First day this baby was operable, everyone in the damn office lined up for a freshly brewed cup. When Father walked into the break room, I cocked a brow, a silent told you so on my tongue.
Loading my favorite tumbler with ice, I pour the espresso in, add four pumps of liquid turbinado sugar, and fill the rest of the cup with hazelnut creamer before securing the lid in place. After my body sighs from the initial sip, I clean the machine then exit the break room.
Stowing my purse, I shrug out of my coat and hang it with my scarf on the rack near my desk.
With a shake of the mouse, I wake up my computer, type in my credentials, and sift through emails and coveted resources for newsworthy stories. Most emails are recycled news, but I scroll through for hidden gems.
One of my favorite resources… a back door into the Stone Bay Police Department.
In my line of work, it pays to be one of the Stone Bay Seven.
Who cares if I obtained the log-on details from my father’s file safe without his consent? Father should do a better job at hiding his safe codes.
I open the Stone Bay Seven database, a police database set up for the Seven’s eyes only—well, all of the Seven over age thirty because of some idiotic bylaw—and scan the screen. Noise complaints regarding Dalton’s Pub at nine last night. An older resident concerned about the bear she’s seen on her lawn every night for the past week. Grievances about rowdy teenagers stealing porch decorations and toilet papering plants and trees.
Essentially, it’s all trash.
Fingers on the keyboard, I’m one button away from closing the database when it refreshes with a new entry.
*Confidential* All-Points Bulletin: Body discovered by Stone Bay Ski Resort employee during morning routine checks in Bay Cliff Mountains, roughly two miles south of resort. Units maintaining low profile are responding now.
“Jackpot.” My blood heats as a victorious smile tips up the corner of my mouth.
I close the database, rise from my seat, straighten my spine, square my shoulders, and march toward Father’s office. Knocking on his cracked door, I plaster on a bright smile before he looks up from his monitor.
“Good morning, Father,” I greet when his bright-blue eyes meet mine.
Unlike my older siblings, I have features and characteristics from both my parents. Father’s vibrant blue eyes and steely determination. Mother’s fiery-red hair and icy demeanor. A little of both their body shapes.
With medium auburn-brown locks, a stocky frame, and sharp jawline, there is no mistaking my oldest sibling, Tyler, is Tobias Graves’s son. And when Hayleigh stands poised next to Mother, most men in the room ogle her trim waist and prominent curves far too long before glancing up at her lengthy red locks and mint-green eyes.
In my formative years, I envied my brother and sister. Before I came into the picture, my parents had the perfect family. Two flawless, moldable heirs. Children who they were proud to show off in town.
I disrupted the whole “ideal” Stone Bay family. The perfect family. At least in my mother’s eyes.
Far too early in life, I hardened my heart as a defense mechanism. Though my parents never outright stated they didn’t love or want me, they also never doted on me the way they did Tyler and Hayleigh.
Even as a child, instinct doesn’t lie. Kids know when they aren’t loved. Not in the way they should be.
“Phoebe,” he addresses. “I trust your weekend was well.”
I live in a separate wing from my parents in the main house on the Graves estate. Taking this into consideration, one may think we would see each other sometime over the weekend. During a meal or walking from point A to B. But I never see my parents. Not unless they want me to see them.
On occasion, I spot Grandfather Talbert near the fireplace with a newspaper in hand and a stack of global newspapers beside him. Grandmother Gwendolyn spends most of her waking hours tending to plants in the garden or greenhouse, depending on the time of year. Elegant, poised, and well-respected, she is the least snobbish in the living Graves line. Unfortunately, she didn’t rub off on Father.
“Yes. And you?”
“Yes. Your mother and I had a wonderful dinner with Hayleigh and Sawyer at Calhoun’s Bistro. Much to discuss about the wedding.”
As if anyone could forget about Hayleigh’s overzealous wedding next month.
“Without a doubt.” Wanting to nip this farce of a conversation in the bud, I change the subject. “I want to cover the new murder story.”
“Case was closed when Emerson shot the man.”
Nice try, Father. “Not the murder near the Barron property. The new murder.”
Father narrows his eyes. “What new murder?”
The corner of my mouth twitches, eager to kick up in a smirk. I bite the inside of my cheek and resist the urge. “Near the ski resort.”
Rubbing a hand over his smooth jaw, he shakes his head. “Not sure how you gained access to something not meant for you,” he states, frustration thick in his voice. “The answer is no, Phoebe.”
I step farther into his office, close the door, and cross my arms over my chest. “Excuse me?”
His eyes shift back to the computer, his way of ending the conversation and silently dismissing me.
Unlucky for him, I am equally stubborn and unwavering. “Why?”
Bored expression firmly in place, he doesn’t meet my gaze. “Why what, Phoebe?”
“Why are you telling me no, Father?”
“Always the petulant one,” he mutters before giving me his attention again. Lips pursed and arms folded across his chest, he tilts his head and stares for a moment. “Truth?”
I regard him like a bug to crush. “Is that a legitimate question?”
“Fine.” Rolling his chair back, he stands and grabs his empty Stone Bay Gazette mug off his desk. “You’re not ready for a story like this—mentally or emotionally.”
“Are you serious?”
He moves past me, opens the door, and exits his office. I follow in his wake, disregarding the stares of others as we pass and head for the break room. Alone again, he continues to ignore me as he presses buttons on the barista machine and brews a fresh cup of coffee.
Seconds turn into minutes as he pays me no attention. He fetches his full mug from under the drip and spins around, eyes aimed at the door.
But I won’t let him leave. Not without an answer.
I block the doorway and plant loose fists on my hips. “This is your answer, the silent treatment?” I cock my head and smirk. “So be it. But I’m still looking into it.”
“I said no, Phoebe. Don’t test me.”
The only way I get an inkling of attention or recognition from my family is by pushing boundaries with my parents. Even then, what I get in return is a mere fraction of what they dole out easily to Tyler and Hayleigh. Scraps, if you will.
“All feelings aside, this is huge. Two dead bodies in just over two months. We have a responsibility to notify the townspeople, Father.”
He sets his mug on the six-seater table, plants his hands on his hips, tips his head back, and huffs at the ceiling. A beat passes before he levels me with an icy stare.
“No, Phoebe. The last thing we need to do is cause more pandemonium in town. And that’s exactly what your story would do… wreak havoc.”
Heat crawls across my skin as my nostrils flare.
“Since when did we become the bland news source for Stone Bay?” I hold my hands out in front of me, palms up, then gesture to the room around us. “Generations of Graves have run this paper and delivered notable news for decades. Fires and expansions and community features. A blend of daunting news and feel-good stories.” On an audible exhale, I lift my chin. “Now you want to throw all that away? Abandoning the truth for some fluff piece so the town doesn’t freak out.” I shake my head. “Not sure you deserve the Graves name anymore, Father.”
He steps closer, fire lighting his eyes. “Watch how you speak to me, young lady. Show some respect.”
That’s it. Get angry. Feel something. Then maybe you will actually do something.
“I’m covering the story whether I have your approval or not.”
“You have no idea what a story like this will do—to you and the town.”
“True,” I admit. “But letting dead people lie”—too soon for that one?—“only tells the responsible party it’s acceptable to keep murdering Stone Bay citizens.” I lift a brow and hold his gaze. “Do you really want future deaths on your conscience?”
“Solving murders isn’t in our job description. The police officers in this town are generously paid for that reason.”
“Did I say I wanted to solve the murder?”
Not that it sounds like a horrible idea. Maybe then, I would be revered as something other than the other Graves daughter. Maybe I’d finally be regarded with significance.
“No. You didn’t need to.” He picks up his coffee and takes a sip. “I know you. Writing a story about another murder and nothing more won’t give you satisfaction.”
I purse my lips and shrug. He isn’t wrong.
“If I had confidence you’d write an exceptional story without causing an uproar, I wouldn’t be so hesitant.”
“Gee, thanks, Tobias.”
On a heavy, exasperated sigh, he shakes his head. “Will you be mature for a damn minute?” He shoves a hand in his pocket. “Use your journalism degree for good. Show me that you’re capable, and maybe I’ll let you write a larger-scale story.”
“I’ll write something else for this week’s paper, but I’m still investigating the murder,” I assure him. “No one gets this story out before Phoebe Graves.”
Gaze falling to the tile, his knee bounces over and over. “If I get a single complaint from anyone”—fierce blue irises lift and lock me in place—“I will have you at your desk every working hour and someone on your tail every other hour.” The muscles of his jaw tic. “Understand?”
A triumphant smile stretches my cheeks painfully. “Got it.”
“I don’t have time for games or foolishness.”
I win. No need to stand here and go toe to toe with my father another second.
Spinning on my heel, I saunter back toward my desk and call over my shoulder, “Thank you, sir.”
Seated at my desk, I open the Stone Bay Seven database again. Sift through every detail entered over the last six months. Look for something, anything, out of the ordinary before either murder was called in. A domestic disturbance call, perhaps. The same citizen reported multiple times. The slightest tip to lead me down an untraveled path. A faint detail someone else missed.
When my eyes go buggy, I turn to the phone. I call the ski resort, pretend to be a tourist looking to visit and ask questions about how safe it is at the resort. Unfortunately, the woman on the other end is far too chipper and won’t shut up about how much she loves Stone Bay.
Ugh.
Needing a break from my desk, I fetch my lunch from the fridge and park at the table in the break room. People come in and try to spark conversation, but I tune them out and mull over all the things I’ve read online.
Several sheets of my legal pad are scribbled with notes on the first murder. The story of the woman in the woods was cut and dry. No evidence at the scene pointed to any one individual. Yet, the police department closed the case when a local man abducted another woman in town with strikingly similar features.
I didn’t know the townie deemed responsible, but his tendencies with Kirsten Sparks did not match that of the previous murder victim.
Yes, the man was sick and needed help. Yes, what he did to her in the Emerson bunker may have been the start of something much worse.
But this twinge in my gut says the man who abducted Kirsten isn’t the same person responsible for the woman in the woods this past November. This flutter beneath my diaphragm—the one I get when a deeper story exists, when I need to dig further—says someone else is still holding the knife. And that same someone let a crazed, obsessed man take the fall.
“Need to talk to the people,” I mutter.
Wood grates tile as I shove my chair back and move to the sink. Rinsing out my container, I stow it in my bag and brew a fresh latte.
With a loaded cup of caffeine, I shrug on my coat, secure my scarf, shoulder my purse, and head for the parking lot. On my way out, I remote start my car and tell Gladys to forward calls to my cell.
Minutes later, I turn on Granite Parkway and scan the sidewalks and storefronts. A light dusting of snow blankets the earth but doesn’t keep Stone Bay citizens from enjoying a day in the heart of the town. Wrapped tight in long wool coats, people smile as they move from store to store.
I locate street parking between Rosenberg’s Deli and Toasty Bagels. With the car in park, I riffle through my purse, pull out my lucky pen, and close my eyes.
“There’s more to this story. I just know it.”
As I stow the pen, I exit the car and stroll the sidewalk. I don my brightest professional smile and approach the occasional friendly face. Without causing an uproar, as my father so blatantly put it, I identify myself and where I work. Then I ask how safe they feel in Stone Bay after the recent incidents.
Some blow me off and shuffle to the next store on quick feet. Others remind me of the damn woman from the ski resort and won’t shut up. But all of them have one thing in common. Not a single person seems alarmed by the woman in the woods, which is somewhat disturbing.
Why does everyone seem peachy fucking keen so soon after a murder in their backyard?
Did the Seven slip something in the town’s water supply?
I may be emotionless at times, but I am far from naive or blasé about people being murdered in my town.
Exiting the nail salon with nothing but a chemical high, I cross the side street and eye Sage Whisperer Metaphysical. Laughter bubbles in my chest and I lift a hand to my mouth as it slips out.
“Maybe someone will tell me my future inside,” I jest.
Crystals, tarot cards and incense cones fill the window display. Signs on the glass mention psychic readings and all kinds of woo-woo bullshit. If these people predict the future, why hasn’t anyone figured out who is really responsible for the murders?
Clearing my thoughts and curving my lips into a friendly smile, I open the door and step inside.
Some weird smell wafts up my nose within seconds and I scrunch my face. The light tinkle of chimes floats through the air, mingling with soft, melodic music. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the left wall, overflowing with books about witchcraft and chakras and who knows what else. Throughout the rest of the store are cube-style wooden shelves with crystals—in every imaginable color, shape, and size—goblets, bowls, herbs, and a bunch of foreign-to-me items.
A woman with jet-black hair pinned up in a messy bun rounds the checkout counter and smiles in my direction. “Love and light,” she says, clasping her hands in prayer and dipping her chin briefly. “What brings you into Sage Whisperer today?”
I don’t identify myself—there is no need. Most of the town is aware of the founding family members, just as I know the woman before me is Aurora Fox. Though she married into a founding family, she keeps secrets locked up like the rest of us. And where secrets lie, a story begs to be written.
I clasp the strap of my purse, straighten my spine, square my shoulders, and brighten my smile. “Have you had any unusual customer interactions recently?”
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
