Chapter 1
Friday, 12:00 p.m.
(16 hours earlier)
I nudge the door open, and it releases a long, slow wail. This building is hundreds of years old, and it acts its age—everything creaks and moans and rattles. Everything makes a fuss. But all that racket makes my job easier, so I can’t complain.
I’m wearing all black, down to my ballet flats. The only glint of color comes from the gold name tag pinned to my shirt with
Amber Adler etched in block letters. I creep silently into the room and flit from place to place, my toes barely grazing the floor as my eyes dart around, taking in every detail—the disheveled bed, the damp towels strewn on lampshades, the bottles littering the desk, leaking sticky puddles of who-knows-what onto the antique wood.
I unzip the black faux leather pouch around my waist and remove a pair of latex gloves. I slide them onto my hands one at a time, snapping them at the wrists to make sure they’re good and tight. They release a puff of sterile powder into the air. I run a fingertip over every surface—nightstands, doorknobs, windowsills—then examine the residue in the light. Messy, yes. But not criminal.
I make my way into the adjoining bathroom. Like the rest of the place, it’s in disarray. I shake my head, and as I do, something near the floorboards catches my eye. The light spilling out of the vintage sconces glints off a shard of metal.
“Well, well, well,” I mutter to myself. “What do we have here?”
I crouch down for a closer look. The object is small but incredibly sharp. I count four blades jutting from its squat handle, each one angled and gleaming. I know I shouldn’t smile—not in the midst of an active crime scene—but I can’t help myself. From my pouch, I remove a plastic evidence bag with a ziplock top. I carefully pluck the weapon from the floor and drop it inside. “Gotcha.”
I rise and spin on my heel, prepared to disappear as silently as I’d arrived. But first, for a split second, I’m confronted by my own reflection in the bathroom mirror—reddish-blond hair scraped back into a messy bun, with escaped strands waving around my face like Medusa’s serpents; an all-black ensemble designed to escape notice; and permanently narrowed eyes overshadowed by two thick brows known to have a life of their own. It’s a good thing I work in the shadows.
And then I see something else in the reflection—or rather, I
don’t see something in the reflection—and my eyes grow wide as I realize what’s missing. “Eep!” I squeal louder than I should. But that doesn’t matter now. The time for sneaking around has passed. On to my favorite part: the big reveal.
I burst out of the room and onto the landing at the top of the stairs. My entrance gets everyone’s attention, as it’s meant to. At the bottom of the staircase, three heads turn to face me, all wearing matching looks of confusion. I barrel toward them, not caring anymore if the decrepit wood snaps, crackles, and pops with every step.
“Amber?” says Mom. Her brief moment of confusion has passed. Now she’s giving me a silent warning with her eyes.
Not again, she’s saying without saying it.
We’re gathered in the lobby of the Cozy Koi Bed-and-Breakfast, described on its website as “a historic Victorian cottage brimming with charm.” Which is a polite way of saying it’s old and shabby—but in a good way. Entering the building is like being transported into your granny’s living room—from the fraying wingback chairs to the stained-glass lamps to the lace doilies to the floral . . . well, everything. It’s the last place you’d expect someone to commit a crime.
Which, of course, makes it the perfect place to commit a crime.
“Stop right there!” I demand, extending a single accusing finger at an elderly couple gripping matching wheelie suitcases. “The jig is up!”
The man’s jaw drops, making the loose skin bunch up under his chin. The woman turns bright pink, deepening the circles of blush she’s swirled onto her cheeks. “Wh-what is she talking about?” the man asks Mom. He doesn’t avert his eyes from me, as if I’ll leap down the stairs and attack if he lets down his guard. And he’s not wrong. If he tries to make a run for it, I’m prepared to pounce. I size the couple up—there are two of them, but they’re old. I’m pretty sure I can take them.
“Amber, cut it out,” Mom growls softly.
I pad slowly and dramatically closer until I’m face to face with the old woman. Pinning my eyes to hers, I poke her suitcase with a single finger. She’s got a bright blue loofah tied to the top of it, making it impossible to forget. “I’ve seen this luggage before,” I say. “When you checked in. And yet . . . it looks different now. Fuller.”
“W-we bought souvenirs,” the woman stammers, backing away from my intense gaze.
“Hmph.” I spin gracefully on my heel, taking full advantage of the dance shoes. “Souvenirs, you say?”
“Yes,” says the woman, the frustration building in her voice. She’s getting defensive, like they all do when they know they’ve been caught. “For our children.”
“How nice,” I say, pulling a tight smile. “And do your children take . . .
baths?” The last word detonates like the bombshell it is. When the dust settles, the two old people have their faces scrunched up like they have no idea what I’m talking about.
Oh, they’re good.
“Amber,” hisses Mom, charging around from behind the front desk and clasping my arm. “Enough!”
“They stole one of the bathrobes!” I shout. My voice is suddenly squeaky instead of commanding. This reveal is not going exactly the way I’d planned it, but Mom’s fingernails are digging into my skin, so I have to improvise. “It’s not on the hook in their bathroom. And just look at her suitcase. It’s practically bursting at the seams. Let me check their luggage. I can prove it!”
The color of Mom’s face turns from pale to tomato red at a speed only seen in cartoons. I’m not sure if it’s caused by anger or embarrassment, but either way, it’s my fault. And I have a sinking suspicion my big reveal is about to be derailed by a plot twist. Mom smiles in the couple’s direction and says the next part through semi-clenched teeth.
“The Havershams kindly brought their robe downstairs to let me know it had a small tear.” She motions behind the desk, where I spy a bit of white fleece.
I take a deep breath and regroup. They’ve won this round. But this isn’t over yet.
“A small tear?” I repeat, narrowing my eyes at the Havershams. With my free hand, I unzip my pouch. “Convenient that there’s a small tear in the bathrobe and I found
this in their room!” I hold up the evidence bag, the gleaming weapon inside.
“Is that . . . my razor?” asks Mr. Haversham. “I was looking everywhere for that!” He stomps over to me and snatches the plastic bag from my hand.
“Hey,” I say, but Mom tugs on my arm and I fall silent.
“I’m very sorry about this,” she says to the Havershams, who are quickly shuffling toward the door. “My daughter reads so many mystery novels, she sees diabolical plots everywhere she looks. I’d love to offer you a discount on an upcoming stay, by way of apology?”
“No thanks,” says Mr. Haversham.
“We won’t be coming back,” adds his wife.
As they bustle toward the door, Mom releases me and goes after them. She looks over her shoulder, briefly dropping the fake smile. I may have made a slight miscalculation about the Havershams, but there’s no mistaking the clues written all over Mom’s face. I’m in big trouble.
Copyright © 2026 by Christyne Morrell. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
