Read the Excerpt: You Are Fatally Invited by Ande Pliego
Chapter 5
Adapted from pages 32 – 35
Dense fog spilled over like thick smoke, racing between our glasses and over our plates—dry ice. I swept my hand into it, and the vapors curled away, unveiling a massive, raw fish the length of my arm.
A tendril of fog curled from the empty eye socket that gaped up at us.
“Appetizing.” Fletcher smiled, eyes flinty. “Who wants a go first?”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to eat it,” Carter said.
“A go at the riddle, Carter.”
“Something’s wrong with the skin,” Violet murmured.
Despite the warm lighting, the fish’s grayed skin was matte rather than shiny, like a shark instead of a fish.
“It’s missing its scales,” Carter said, gingerly lifting the fish head with his knife. He grimaced, peering under it. “And this eye, too.”
“Blinded,” Cassandra said, clacking her nails on the thick tablecloth. “Someone took the eyes. An eye for an eye, hmm?”
“But missing scales?” Carter scraped the sludge off his knife onto his plate, leaving a murky trail. “And being served on ice?”
“Perhaps it’s not about the missing scales,” Olivia guessed. “Perhaps it’s simply drawing attention to them.”
“Ooooh,” Cassandra said, smiling into her champagne. “I like this one.”
Scales. Blind.
A chill ran a scalpel edge down my neck, and I flinched—the cold, claro.
“Okay, Fletch,” Carter said. “Might be time to spill something useful.”
“Mmm, no, I think not. Until our host arrives, my lips are sealed.”
“Okay,” Carter said, “until Fletcher decides to be useful, I see three parts of the riddle: the ice, missing scales, and missing eyes. What else has to do with scales, is blind, and cold?”
“Mother-in-law number two,” Cassandra offered. “Nasty woman, much like her son.”
Ashton twisted in his seat to look at her, both eyebrows up to his hairline.
Scales. Blind.
Cielos. There was no way.
“A snake?” Olivia suggested.
“Snakes never blink, so not blind,” Carter refuted. “I took a herpetology elective in college.”
“You’re all wrong,” Violet said, her pointed chin lifting. Her dark eyes were nailed to the fish. “It’s justice.”
The word hollowed out my stomach. No. No, justice wasn’t the answer, and I was not the target of some secret message. My guilt was sharpening everyone else’s words and actions into daggers, regardless of whether they meant it or not. It was just cruel irony, snaking through an obscure riddle.
“Justice, really?” Cassandra’s nose crinkled. “Pity. I was hoping for something sexier.”
“Lady Justice is blind, and holding scales,” Carter mused. The pen he absently clicked grated against my nerves with each tick. “Would go along with Cassandra’s ‘eye for an eye’ theory, of sorts.”
Cassandra tipped her glass to his untouched one. “Call me Cassie, darling.”
Ice skittered onto the tablecloth as I unearthed the closest bottle from its bucket, poured a steady stream into my glass. “Doesn’t work. Actual justice doesn’t go an eye for an eye, only ancient justice. And the cold platter—doesn’t fit.”
“The fish is on ice,” Violet said. “You could say it’s served cold.”
“Justice, best served cold.” Ashton nodded.
My latest book with Olivia featured a body made to look like Lady Justice, tied to a desecrated cemetery statue and holding a set of scales and a sword slick with blood.
Irony wasn’t just misting across the dinner table—the entire island was soaked in it.
“Well done.” Cassandra applauded, her obnoxious bangles clattering together. “We have our answer.”
I snorted. “It’s not justice.”
“You have a better idea?” Fletcher asked. “Or is J.R. getting inside your head already?”
“We’re writers, dear,” Cassandra said, patting his shoulder. “‘There is no horror greater than that inside our own minds.’ Miranda French said that, I believe—wonderful author.”
The cold was humid, seeping through the seams of my jacket.
But I was burning up.
“Mmmm, no.” Fletcher’s narrowed eyes slid over the dull gray of the fish, the empty sockets. “Justice isn’t what’s famous for being served cold.”
Olivia’s steady gaze warmed the side of my face.
Fletcher killed his drink, the golden swirl disappearing down his throat. “Usually, it’s revenge.”
Discover the Book
Confess the crimes, survive the tropes.
Alastor and Mila have masterminded a week of games, trope-fueled riddles, and maybe a jump scare or two–the perfect cover for Mila to plot a murder of her own. But when a guest turns up dead–and it’s not the murder she planned–Mila finds herself trapped in a different narrative altogether.
One by one, you’ll lose your turn.
With a storm isolating the island, and the body count rising, Mila must outwit a killer who knows literally every trick in the book.
Until only one of us remains . . .
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