Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) Gemma Halliday (13 ebook reader TXT) 📖

She spun to face me, her cheeks stark white beneath her makeup, her eyes big and round behind her magnifying frames.

"It's so awful, right?" she said, her voice high and tight.

"What? What's going on?" I asked, hearing fear seep into my own voice.

Ellen licked her lips. "It's Connor Simon."

"The Athena game guy?"

She nodded.

"What about him?"

"He's…" She paused, her eyes wide. "He's dead."

CHAPTER THREE

An hour later, the back half of the convention center had been cleared out and yellow crime scene tape was draped where just that morning a line of eager gamers had stood. The food court, however, was doing a brisk business, overflowing with people speculating on just what had happened to Simon.

"Maybe someone was angry they couldn't get past level twenty-one and killed him."

"Maybe he had a seizure from staring at the screen too long."

"Maybe he choked on a Cheeto." (I'll admit, this last one was mine. Don't laugh—it almost happened to me once in the school cafeteria. Lucky Sam knew the Heimlich.)

I watched as a portly, freckled, red-haired man walked into the convention center in a suit that looked about ten years too old and two sizes two small. I recognized him immediately. Detective Raley.

Churro in hand, I ducked behind a cardboard cutout of a giant pink Kirby to avoid his gaze. Not that I had anything to hide. But Raley reporting back to Mom over a candlelight dinner that he'd spotted her daughter at a crime scene was not ideal.

"Hey, isn't that your mom's new boyfriend?" Sam asked, licking cinnamon sugar off her fingers beside me.

I cringed. "He's not her boyfriend. They're just…dating. Kinda."

"You're close with the detective?" Chase asked, coming up behind me.

"No!" I said emphatically. "I just know him. Sorta."

"Go ask him about the case," Chase urged.

I spun on him. "Are you crazy? If my mom finds out that I was at a crime scene, she'll ground me until I'm using a cane."

Chase smirked. "I doubt that."

"You don't know my mom."

Sam nodded in agreement. "Hartley's right. She would."

"This is a huge story," Chase pointed out. "And you have the advantage over every other press outlet in town. You're actually here. You're really just going to let this opportunity slip through your fingers?" he asked, wiggling his own digits to emphasize his point.

I pursed my lips together. I could see the challenge in his eyes: Are you a real reporter, or are you afraid of Mommy?

I'll admit, I contemplated that for a beat.

"Fine," I finally agreed. "I'll get the story."

Chase grinned. "That's my girl."

Was it weird that the pronoun my before the word girl suddenly made my churro feel squishy in my stomach?

I turned toward the back of the main hall, slowly making my way through the crowd of onlookers to the edge of the yellow crime scene tape. I watched Raley approach the VizaSoft booth, his trusty little notebook in hand as he talked with a security guard and then a uniformed officer. Yes, actual paper notebook. He was so old.

I'd have given anything to be able to hear what he and his officer were saying, but they were too far away. I leaned forward, straining over the noise of the spectators. Unfortunately, unless I learned to read lips, there was no way I was getting this convo.

Police swarmed everywhere, and I noticed several of them questioning people behind the yellow tape. I spotted the con organizer I'd seen earlier hugging her clipboard and a blonde woman in a little pink dress who was tall enough to tower over the officer beside her, both being questioned. The blonde was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, gesturing wildly with her hands as she answered the officer's questions.

I stood on tip-toe, trying to get Raley's attention over all the commotion. I watched the officer next to him gesture to the booth, Raley nod, then turn his gaze out over the crowd, slowly surveying the room with a stoic expression. That is, until his eyes stopped on me. Then the expression was a little less stoic and a little more scowlish.

I gave him a little one finger wave.

Which did nothing to alleviate the scowl. He left the officer, shoving his notebook into his jacket pocket before he made quick strides toward me.

"Hartley," he said, his voice deep and gravelly.

"Detective Raley."

"What are you doing here?"

"Me?" I asked, trying to infuse my voice with innocence. "Just eating a churro."

The scowl deepened, making thick creases between his strawberry blond eyebrows. "Why are you at my crime scene?"

"Hey, this was totally not a crime scene when I got here. It was just a convention."

While I thought that argument was quite convincing, this was at least the third time I'd shown up at one of his crime scenes. So I could see why he was suspicious.

"Does your mother know you're here?"

I shot him a look. Classic intimidation move, bringing the SMother into it.

"As a matter of fact, yes," I said. I didn't add that she had no idea a death had occurred here. "I'm here reporting on the con for the school paper," I explained.

Raley looked out over the assembled group of costumed onlookers again. "The con is suspended for today. Go home."

I shook my head. "Can't. Buses don't come by for another half hour."

Raley narrowed his eyes at me.

I put my hand (the one not holding the churro) up in a surrender motion. "Hey, don't blame me that California's public transportation sucks."

He grunted, though I wasn't sure if he was agreeing or disagreeing with me. Either way, I cleared my throat, getting to the point.

"So, Simon's dead, huh?" I asked.

Raley nodded. "It appears that way."

"What killed him?" I