The address linked to the alias led them to a quiet, unassuming house on the outskirts of StoreyBrook.

  A run-down Victorian, tucked just far enough away from the main roads to feel secluded. Overgrown hedges and peeling paint made it look forgotten, but the porch light was on—as if someone had been expecting company.

  Hook, Peter, and Hunter stood outside the front door, guns drawn, the search warrant clutched in Hook’s fist.

  Red watched from the passenger seat of Hunter’s car, heart pounding as she gripped the edge of her seat.

  Something felt wrong.

  They had followed the lead from the guest list—cross-referenced every name, every registration. And there it was: Alexander Wolfe.

  Except Alexander Wolfe had been dead for weeks.

  Red didn’t know how she knew. But she felt it in her gut.

  And as soon as Hook gave the signal to breach the door, the smell hit them all at once.

  The house reeked.

  The second the door swung open, the thick, suffocating stench of rot flooded the air.

  Peter gagged, yanking his collar up over his nose. “Jesus.”

  Hunter swore under his breath, covering his mouth with the crook of his elbow.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Even Hook—who had seen his fair share of corpses—grimaced as he stepped forward. “Fan out. Clear every room.”

  The floors creaked beneath their boots as they moved through the house, the darkness swallowing their shadows whole.

  Dust coated every surface, like the place had been abandoned for months. But that wasn’t right.

  There was no dust on the kitchen table.

  No dust on the hallway mirror.

  Someone had been here. Recently.

  And then, they reached the bedroom.

  The bed was neatly made, the blankets still tucked beneath the weight of the body.

  Alexander Wolfe lay motionless on his back, arms crossed over his chest like a man who had simply gone to sleep and never woken up.

  Except for the fact that his skin was gray and sunken, his lips cracked, his eyes hollow pits.

  The body had been decomposing for weeks.

  Hunter let out a long breath. “Well… that explains the smell.”

  Peter moved forward cautiously, shining his flashlight over the corpse. “No obvious signs of struggle. No defensive wounds.”

  Hook frowned, scanning the room.

  Then he noticed something.

  A neatly folded suit sat on the chair beside the bed.

  A stack of newspaper clippings sat on the nightstand.

  And beneath them—

  An invitation to the Happily Ever After Ball.

  Red wasn’t inside the house, but she saw the exact moment Hook and Hunter realized what had happened.

  Because Hunter went rigid.

  And Hook swore under his breath, rubbing his forehead like he was already feeling the headache this was going to bring.

  Peter stepped back from the bed, exhaling sharply. “He’s been dead for weeks.”

  Red’s blood ran cold.

  That means the Wolf has been using his identity the whole time.

  She sat forward, gripping the dashboard. “He’s been planning this for weeks.”

  Peter turned toward the nightstand, carefully flipping through the newspaper clippings.

  His stomach twisted.

  Every article had one thing in common.

  They were all about Red.

  Her stories.

  Her blog.

  Her investigations.

  The Wolf had been watching her.

  Following her.

  And she never even knew.