In the end, I don’t kill Connor off.
After he swore up and down to Inspector Tucci that I had nothing to do with the robberies and cut a deal to avoid jail time himself,228 it felt wrong to do it.
I wouldn’t say we’re friends now, but being the joint object of assassination attempts does bond you.
Besides, I got my publisher to agree to let me start a new series. I’ll be doing two books a year, which sounds insane, but I asked for it, so I shouldn’t complain.229
There’s this saying in Hollywood: Do one for them and then one for you. And that’s the approach I’m taking.
They haven’t found Marta. There’s an international warrant for her arrest—one of those Interpol things you see in the movies—so I assume they’ll find her eventually. I try not to think about it too much because you can’t live like that, looking over your shoulder all the time, waiting for someone to strike.230
Isabella is awaiting trial. We’ll all have to go back to Italy to testify when it happens, which I’m kind of looking forward to. I mean, it’s not like I wanted to be a witness to a real murder, but now that it’s happened, I can get something out of the experience. Everything, as they say, is book fodder.231 Write what you know.
When we got back to the States, Harper and I helped organize Shek’s funeral. Even though he was kind of in on the plot to kill me, I don’t hold it against him. I don’t believe that he wanted me dead, and let’s be honest: I 100 percent understand the desire to torture Connor a bit for his crimes.
Yep. Harper’s still working for me. The difference is, she doesn’t resent me anymore. We’re back to how we used to be, and she’s given up writing. Maybe she’ll go back to it someday, she says. But for now, she’s happy helping me out.
Shek’s funeral took place in the small town he lived in a couple of hours outside of New York. It was a heavy July day, pregnant with rain, and we stood around the graveside dressed in black and cloaked in silence under black umbrellas. In the end, it was Shek who had the real flair for the dramatic.
It was the first time we were all together again—me, Harper, Oliver, Connor, Allison, Emily, and Guy.
And the BookFace Ladies, of course—let’s not forget about them.
They wore black T-shirts with Shek’s book covers on them, which I thought was a touching gesture. Apparently, it was Cathy’s idea. She reached out, contrite, and confirmed that Marta had invited her to come on the tour. Having been the unwitting accomplice of a murderer seems to have knocked the crazy out of her. I’m not saying we’re going to be BFFs, but I asked my lawyer to lift the restraining order. If she comes to my next book launch, I’m not going to be mad about it.
The funeral was nice and appropriately sad, and at the reception, the executive editor of our publisher announced that three of Shek’s books are back on the list. I feel almost certain that he’d be happy to know this, though his life was too big a price to pay even for the top three spots on the New York Times bestseller list.
Emily was shy and full of some secret. It was written all over her face, though I never got a chance to ask her what it was. Probably that she’s signed a three-book deal. I’ll find out eventually. I caught her making a TikTok as we walked away from the graveside. Change doesn’t always come easy.
Taking a cue from Connor, Allison brought a date to the funeral, a man who looked at her with the reverence I doubt she ever got from Connor. Where did she meet him? That’s a story for another day. No One Was Supposed to Die at this Wedding, more specifically. Yep—there’s a sequel! And a third book in the works, too.232
Which brings me to Connor.233 I was surprised he showed up, to be honest, because it was his fault that Shek was dead. But there he was, a beautiful woman on his arm, and …
Okay, okay. He didn’t actually bring a date to the funeral. But it was believable that he’d do it, right? You were totally picturing him looking tragic with some dishy blonde on his arm!
Anyway, sometimes people surprise you. Maybe he has changed.
Or maybe not.
I’ve solved enough mysteries for one day. You figure it out.
“What are we doing here, again?” Oliver asks a couple of months later. It’s October and he’s wearing a tux, bow tie and all. He looks like he could be cast as the next James Bond.234
Oh, yeah. He’s still around.
We’re making a go of it.
I’m not saying it’s been easy, but me almost dying a bunch of times clarified Oliver’s feelings for me.
He can’t live without me, apparently, and obviously the feeling’s mutual.
He’s in a tux because we’re at a black-tie wedding on Catalina Island. My best friend, Emma, got married today. She’s taken over the Descanso Beach Club for the weekend—a large white-sided Cape Cod–style building with a series of balconies that stare at the ocean and a coved beach/marina where you can park your private boat.
It’s that kind of wedding.
“I told you a million times. I made this match.”
He wraps his arm around my waist. I’m wearing an eggplant bridesmaid dress, and because Emma has excellent taste, I don’t hate it. I snuggle into Oliver. His aftershave is fresh, and his eyelashes tickle the skin on my neck. The band is playing Mazzy Star’s “Fade into You” and any moment now, Oliver’s going to ask me to dance.
“Oh, so you’re a matchmaker now?” he says with a grin I can feel against my skin.
“I mean, yeah, kind of.”
“Why would you want to get involved in someone else’s love life?”
Good question.
And this might seem weird, given the uneven state of my own relationships, but I’ve always loved weddings. All that love on display. Two people facing each other, promising that their love will last through time. Then that first married kiss, sealing the troth, making it clear that forever starts today.
Forever.
That’s the hope. To do better. To do right. To treasure.
Even—if you kink that way—to obey.
An idea worth preserving, I think. Worth helping come true.
All I’m saying is, there’s a reason people are suckers for romance.
“I like putting things together, you know that.”
“So, a match is just another mystery to solve?”
“In a way.” I catch his hand and twine my fingers through his. Our foreheads are touching now, and it’s almost like we’re dancing. The sun is setting over the Pacific, the sky outside the windows that amazing orange hue that only lasts for a few minutes. White-sailed boats bob on their moorings, and the air is tinged with the ocean’s special brine.235 “It takes work, you know, finding two people who’re right for each other.”
He tilts his chin toward me and now we’re almost kissing. “Oh, I know.”
“Are we going to dance, or what?”
He reaches for my waist without saying anything and pirouettes us onto the dance floor. I laugh, happy, as I tuck my chin on his shoulder. We turn slowly past Emma and her husband, and they look happy, too, as they should.236
“Enjoying yourself?” Oliver asks as we navigate past the other dancing couples.
“What’s not to enjoy?”
“You seem distracted.”
“Oh, I’m just … plotting.”
“No rest for the wicked.”
I laugh.
“Every couple I’ve matched is still together.”
This is true.
Until today, that is.
Not that I don’t consider today’s wedding a success. The ceremony took place, the promises were made, and Emma was beautiful in her white sheath dress that looked simple but cost an astonishing amount. The reception is tasteful and full of glamorous people, and they will be together until death parts them.
So, it’s not my fault that when I leave Oliver on the dance floor to use the facilities, I find one of the wedding party splayed out on the floor of a supply closet, the cake-cutting knife sticking straight up out of their back like someone tried to serve them up for dessert.
Is it?
Ah, shit.