You May Now Kill the Bride (Return to Fear Street Book 1)

“Hello,” he said. “Can I help you?”

I stared into his face. It wasn’t Aiden.

He was older, in his thirties maybe, with circles around his dark eyes, cheeks sagging, tired-looking, a weary face. Salt-and-pepper mustache and a few days’ stubble.

Not Aiden’s face.

Was this who I saw last night?

No. Of course not. I spoke to Aiden. In room 237. We spoke. He knew my name. It wasn’t this man. This imposter. This man in the black hat with Aiden’s walk.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I thought you were someone else.”

“No worries,” he said. “Have a good one.” He turned and strode away.

When I returned to my parents’ room, it looked as if no one had moved. Mom was still in the armchair, drink in one hand, a bunched-up handkerchief gripped in the other. Dad stood behind her chair, looking pale and unsteady. Robby sat at the table behind them, rolling his phone between his fingers.

Doug stood beside the table, phone to his ear. He lowered it as I entered the room. “I keep calling her,” he said, “but it goes right to voice mail.” He sighed. “She doesn’t answer my texts, either. It says they are delivered, but she doesn’t reply.”

Silence. We stared at each other.

“Where’ve you been, Harmony?” Dad asked finally.

“I had a few ideas,” I said. “But they . . . they were a waste of time.”

Mom shook her head. “I—I don’t know what to think. I can’t believe Marissa would be this inconsiderate. It just isn’t like her. She would have called. She . . . she must be in trouble.” She swallowed and made a coughing sound. “Oh my God. She could be . . . dead.”

“Don’t say that!” Dad shouted. “Why do you always have to go to the worst possible thing? Marissa isn’t dead. I know she isn’t. Try to be more positive.”

Mom sipped her drink. “Positive? My daughter is missing on her wedding day, and I’m supposed to be positive?”

A knock on the door interrupted the conversation.

“Who is it?” Dad shouted.

“Kenny.”

Dad frowned. “I know what he wants. The police won’t let anyone go home until they’ve all been questioned.”

The door swung open and Uncle Kenny strode in, followed by Max, who carried a red plastic fire truck. Max dropped instantly to the rug and began pushing his fire truck around, making annoying siren noises.

Kenny had changed from his wedding suit into a loose-fitting blue polo shirt and khaki shorts. “Sorry to barge in again,” he said. “But they won’t let me check out, and I have an important meeting that just came up this minute in Philly tomorrow.”

“Kenny, how about a drink?” Mom said, raising her glass to him. She was beginning to slur her words, and her voice was throaty, kind of deep and fuzzy.

Kenny shook his bald head impatiently. “I’m going to miss my plane unless the cops let me out of here. Do you think you could talk to them, David?”

“I could try,” Dad said reluctantly. I could see the anger in his eyes. Even in an emergency like this one, Kenny had to be a pain.

Max sent his fire truck smashing into the wall. He laughed and retrieved it and made more siren wails. You’d think maybe he’d notice the sadness in the room, but he didn’t.

Lucky kid.

Meanwhile, I still felt dazed by my encounter in the lobby, and not just with the guy who looked like Aiden. I kept seeing that old photograph from 1924, kept seeing the two guys I talked to posing in there so long ago.

I’m crazy. Marissa’s disappearance has totally knocked my brain off balance.

Dad stepped away from the chair and started toward the door. “If I can find the police, Kenny, maybe I can ask them to interview you first.”

“I don’t think there’s time. It’s an hour drive to the airport. Can’t you just tell them I’m your brother and there’s no reason—”

“I saw Marissa.” Max’s words made everyone freeze.

He sat with his legs crossed, spinning the fire truck wheel against his palm.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I saw Marissa,” he repeated.

“When?”

“This morning.” He lowered the truck to the rug and sent it rolling toward the wall.

Mom climbed to her feet, spilling some of her drink. “Where, Max? Where did you see her?”

No one moved. We all stared down at him, cross-legged and nonchalant on the floor.

“In the lobby,” Max replied, standing up. “Before the wedding. Want me to show you?”

“Yes. Show us.” Uncle Kenny placed his hands on Max’s shoulders. He turned back to my dad. “But quickly, because we really have to leave. I don’t mean to be difficult, but if I miss this meeting . . .”

Dad held the door open. “We don’t all have to go,” he said, motioning to Mom. “Why don’t you stay, and I’ll report back right away.”

Mom settled back into the chair.

“I’ll stay with Mom,” Robby said.

Doug followed Dad and me to the door. “Where are we going?” Kenny asked Max.

Max gripped the fire truck in one hand. He pointed with his other hand. “To the lobby. Can I have an ice cream?”

“Not right now,” Kenny said.

“But I want one,” Max insisted.

We turned the corner. The lobby was at the end of this hallway.

“You’re sure you saw Marissa?” Dad asked Max, stepping up beside him. “This morning? You’re sure?”

Max nodded. “Yes. I saw her.”

“Did she talk to you?” Doug asked.

“Of course not,” Max said. “That’s dumb.”

Doug and I exchanged glances again. Max’s answer made no sense.

We stepped into the lobby. The crowd had thinned out. A family of four was checking in at the front desk. The seats where I’d seen my cousins were empty.

“Max, show us where you saw Marissa,” Kenny said. He’d been holding on to Max’s shoulders the whole way. Now he let go of them.

“Over here,” Max said. He took off, running toward the front doors. He stopped at the steps that led down to the exit. He turned toward an easel propped up at the side.

“Here she is. Right here,” Max proclaimed.

I gasped. He was pointing at the sign announcing the wedding. It was a large photo of Marissa and Doug, and it had words in a fancy script beneath it: The Wedding of Marissa Fear and Douglas Falkner. 1 p.m. On the Mesa Today.

Max stabbed the photo with his finger. “See? I told you I saw her. Can I have ice cream? I want vanilla.”

They looked so happy in the photo, big smiles and their arms around each other. I had to force back a sob. Dad just shook his head, his eyes shut. For once, Uncle Kenny was speechless.

Doug, still in his tuxedo, but the tie gone and the shirt open a few buttons at the collar, one side untucked, shoved his hands into his pockets. He had his head down. I couldn’t see his expression.

“Ice cream!” Max shouted.

Kenny turned to Dad and shrugged. “Sorry about that.” He started leading the kid away. “Better find him some ice cream. David, you’ll get me out of here, right?”

Dad didn’t answer. We turned and started to walk back to the room.

But a shout from the entrance doors made us stop. “Mr. Fear, can I see you for a moment?”

The three of us spun around to see a blond-haired, very young policeman come up the stairs. He had a badge pinned to his blue short-sleeved uniform shirt. His black gun holster bounced against his leg as he hurried toward us.

“I have to ask you a question,” he said, a little out of breath. His eyes were olive-colored, and he had a spray of freckles around his nose.

He raised a blue-and-red running shoe in front of him. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.

We all squinted at it as if we’d never seen a sneaker before.

“Is it your daughter’s?” the officer asked, pushing it closer to us.

“Could be. I can’t tell,” Dad said softly.

“Where did you find it?” I asked.

“On the mesa. At the edge of the cliff.”