Page 95 of Without a Clue

And there is the knife.

Covered in blood.

Chapter 19

Apparently, I’ve passed out.

Because that’s what you do when you’re a sleep-deprived, adrenaline-electrified amateur sleuth trying to get herself killed by finding crucial clues in a murderer’s lair.

Pass out until they find you.

Thankfully, in my case, I have Nash.

And next thing I know, I’m in Nash’s arms and he’s opening the door.

“Wait!” I cry, flinging my arm out.

I wouldn’t say he screamed exactly, but whatever it was, it was clear I just went from dead asleep to life in his arms, and the sudden scream made him leap two feet off the floor.

I push his hand away from the knob and turn it myself. “Did you get my shoes?”

“Geez, Pip!” he says. “Yes, I got your shoes!”

I see them dangling from his hand.

“Did you put the weapon back?”

“Was I supposed to?” he says, frowning.

“Yes!” I cry out. “Yes! Leave it here and we’ll get the detective so he can see for himself. It doesn’t do us any favors to hand him a weapon from our hands and claim it’s from her.”

“Breaking and entering and then claiming we found the weapon looks a little suspicious, you’re saying,” he says, moving my entire body into one arm and throwing open the drawer in a move of extreme strength, dropping the knife inside, and slamming it shut.

He adjusts to hold me with both arms. “But running back to the room and then calling him telling him to look for a bloody knife in a drawer won’t? I’ll be honest, Pip, I’m starting to wonder if we didn’t think this through.”

“Time was of the essence. I saw her leave and had to do something,” I say in a rush. “C’mon.”

I bounce my useless dangling legs like I’m trying to giddy up, horsey him.

“Let’s brainstorm back in the room. I can call him from the room. Or . . . or whatever. But we’ll figure it out there.”

As he races us back to the room (why doesn’t he put me down? I don’t know. You don’t do things that make sense when you’re under the knife, turns out), I feel an intense adrenaline rush in the settling reality: Crystal is the killer.

Crystal, turns out, is the killer.

I’m supposed to say there’s something terribly sad about that, but the truth is, I’m nothing but relieved. Relieved it’s not love-revenge Neena. Relieved it’s not ghostwriter-secret Jackie. Or sweet Gordon. Or Nash, obviously. Or even . . . in my own way, Ricky.

We’ve only known Crystal now, what? A year? Two?

She’s but a blip in the memories of our lives. Good memories, sure. But there are just a few of them. And quite frankly, Crystal and I have never quite clicked. Maybe it’s all the tracking down I’ve had to do for her. Regardless, she doesn’t take up the same amount of space in my heart as the others.

It feels like less of a betrayal. So she betrayed us. But anyone can fake a personality for one year. It’s truly horrifying to fake it over five.

Mostly, I feel an adrenaline-pumped relief. It’s over. We figured out the killer.

I pull out my phone, even as Nash is running.

Begin to type Cedar’s name.