6. Death Wears a Jade Mask
A Bunny Beaudoin Mystery
When a wealthy donor drops dead at her charity gala, Fox Theater fundraiser Bunny Beaudoin finds herself thrust into a murder investigation that threatens everything she's built. Teaming up with enigmatic private investigator Dash O'Neill, Bunny discovers the victim was poisoned—and he's not the killer's first target. As bodies pile up and the theater's reputation hangs in the balance, Bunny and Dash navigate a web of secrets, lies, and dangerous attraction. Between dodging a suspicious police chief and uncovering a conspiracy that reaches the highest levels of Magnolia Heights society, Bunny must decide how far she's willing to go for justice—and whether she can trust the mysterious man who's stolen her heart. In a world where everyone has something to hide, the deadliest secret might be falling in love with your partner in crime.
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Bunny never made it to Inman Park.
She was three blocks away, rehearsing potential opening lines to Dash when the blue lights flashed in her rearview mirror. Not the black sedan she’d been paranoidly tracking for the last fifteen minutes, but an unmarked police car that had materialized behind her with the suddenness of a tax audit.
“Are you kidding me?” She muttered, pulling Dusty to the curb, “I wasn’t even speeding.”
The car behind her went dark, and a woman emerged: squat, broad-shouldered, with the ramrod posture of someone who’d spent significant time having their spine yelled into alignment. Her hair, delicately twisted into thin sister locks, was tied tightly into a militaristic bun. She approached with the methodical confidence of a predator who knew their prey wasn’t going anywhere. Bunny rolled down her window, summoning her most charming smile; the one she reserved for potential donors with questionable politics but unquestionable wealth.
“Good afternoon, Officer. Did I miss a stop sign or–”
“Ms. Beaudoin,” The woman cut her off, removing her dark Aviators with a practice flick, “Chief Marjorie Lancaster, Magnolia Heights PD. I’m going to need you to come with me.”
Bunny blinked, the smile freezing on her face.
“I’m sorry– what? Am I under arrest?” Her mind did a frantic inventory of recent activities. Technically, amateur sleuthing wasn’t illegal. Probably.
“Not yet,” Chief Lancaster replied, the ‘yet’ hanging in the air like a guillotine blade, “Just a conversation that’s best had at the station. You can follow me, or ride with me and have one of my officers bring your car.”
It wasn’t a request so much as a choice between slightly different flavors of compliance.
“I’ll follow you,” Bunny said, fingers tightening around the steering wheel, “My car’s – er – temperamental with strangers.”
Lancaster’s expression suggested she found this about as believable as a toddler’s explanation for crayon on the walls, but she nodded curtly.
“Station’s four blocks east. Don’t get creative with the route.”
Twenty minutes later, Bunny sat in an interrogation room that looked exactly like every interrogation room she’d ever seen on television, down to the suspiciously stained table and the two-way mirror that might as well have had “WE’RE WATCHING YOU” stenciled across it. The only missing element was the single swinging light bulb, though the fluorescent fixtures overhead did an admirable job of making everyone look like they were in the early stages of liver failure.
Her phone buzzed in her purse.
Dash, undoubtedly wondering where she was.
She reached for it, but the door swung open before she could check. Chief Lancaster entered, accompanied by a painfully young detective whose suit suggested it was purchased for a high school graduation and had been loyally serving ever since. Lancaster took the seat across from Bunny, placing a thin file on the table between them.
“Ms. Beaudoin,” She began, her voice carrying the tone of someone who’d mastered the art of making your name sound like an accusation, “Would you care to explain why you’re conducting a parallel investigation into the death of Harold Finch?”
Bunny’s stomach plummeted, but years of fundraising had taught her that visible panic was a luxury reserved for people who didn’t need to convince billionaires to fund youth theater programs.
“I wouldn’t call it an ‘investigation,’” She replied, injecting her voice with just enough indignation to sound reasonable, “I’m just checking on our donors after a traumatic event. It’s literally in my job description.”
“And your meeting with Private Investigator Dashiell O’Neill? Is that also part of your job description?”
Well, shit.
“Mr. O’Neill approached me with concerns about the incident at our gala. As the development director responsible for that event, I felt it appropriate to hear those concerns.”
Bunny leaned forward slightly.
“Professional courtesy. Nothing more.”
Lancaster’s laugh was brief and empty.
“Professional courtesy,” She echoed sardonically, “Interesting choice of words. What about your plans to meet him at Inman Park this afternoon? More ‘professional courtesy’?”
The young detective shifted uncomfortably, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else– possibly including active crime scenes. Bunny mentally dubbed him Detective Bambi.
“Chief Lancaster,” Bunny said, dropping the pretense, “What exactly am I being accused of? Last I checked, speaking with a licensed investigator isn’t a crime.”
“No, but interfering with an active police investigation is,” Lancaster tapped the file, “We’ve been tracking O’Neill’s movements. He’s been poking around three separate deaths, spinning conspiracy theories, and now he’s dragged you into his delusions.”
“They’re not delusions if all three victims had belladonna in their systems.” Bunny countered before she could stop herself.
Lancaster’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“And how exactly would you know that detail about the other two cases? That information wasn’t released to the public.
Double shit.
“Mr. O’Neill mentioned it,” Bunny admitted, “I assumed he had access to the reports through proper channels.”
“Mr. O’Neill has a habit of accessing things through decidedly improper channels.” Lancaster leaned back, studying Bunny with the interest of an entomologist examining a particularly problematic beetle.
“Let me be clear, Ms. Beaudoin. You are a fundraiser, not a detective. You are actively hampering our investigation by stirring up witnesses, alerting potential persons of interest, and generally making a mess of carefully laid groundwork.”
Detective Bambi shifted again, drawing Lancaster’s attention. She sighed.
“Detective Ramirez has something to add. Against my better judgement, I’m going to let him speak.”
Ramirez cleared his throat, straightening like a student unexpectedly called on in class.
“Ms. Beaudoin might actually have information that could be useful to the investigation.” He said nervously, looking as surprised by his own audacity as Lancaster appeared.
“Her conversation with Siobhan Reid this morning elicited details that our formal interview didn’t.”
Bunny didn’t bother hiding her surprise.
“You were following me?”
“We’ve been monitoring key witnesses,” Lancaster corrected, “You happened to visit one.”
“And what information did I supposedly uncover?” Bunny asked, curiosity temporarily overriding self-righteous indignation.
Ramirez glanced at Lancaster, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Ms. Reid mentioned to you that Carissa Levinson canceled their lunch plans due to an unexpected trip to the Bahamas. This is the first indication we’ve had of her whereabouts. She’s been unresponsive to our attempts to schedule a follow-up interview.”
“Meaning she’s fled the jurisdiction.” Bunny concluded.
“Meaning,” Lancaster corrected sharply, “That she’s temporarily unavailable. People take vacations, Ms. Beaudoin. Not every trip to the Caribbean is an admission of guilt.”
“But the timing is suspicious.” Ramirez pressed, earning a glacial stare from his superior.
“Detective, would you excuse us for a moment?”
Ramirez hesitated, then nodded, disappearing through the door with the relieved expression of someone who’d narrowly avoided being thrown into a volcano. Once alone, Lancaster’s demeanor shifted subtly. She was still formidable, but with a new layer of calculation behind her eyes.
“Ms. Beaudoin, I understand the impulse to play detective. Especially given your personal connection to the case.”
“Personal connection?” Bunny echoed, genuinely confused.
Lancaster’s eyebrow raised a fraction.
“You seated the victim at a table with his former business partner and said partner’s ex–wife, creating circumstances that may have contributed to his death. That’s about as personal as it gets without holding the poison yourself.”
The words hit with surgical precision, finding the exact spot where Bunny’s guilt and anger lived. Lancaster, sensing the impact, continued.
“I have two options here. I can charge you with obstruction of justice and let you explain to Ms. Wilde why her development director is spending the night in holding… or you can agree to stand down and let us do our job.”
“And if I agree to ‘stand down,’ what guarantee do I have that your investigation will actually get results?” Bunny challenged, the heat rising in her voice.
Lancaster’s jaw tightened.
“Criminal investigations aren’t like your fundraising galas, Ms. Beaudoin. They don’t operate on convenient timelines with color-coded seating charts. We’re building a case that will stand up in court, not just make for interesting dinner conversations among your theater friends.”
“Speaking of courts,” Bunny said, inspiration striking, “Carissa Levinson is a partner at Hargrove & Bennett, one of the most prestigious law firms in the Southeast. If she is involved, you’re not just dealing with a murderer. You’re dealing with someone who knows exactly how to exploit every procedural loophole in the book.”
Something flickered in Lancaster’s eyes. Not acknowledgement, exactly, but a moment of consideration.
“Your concern is noted. Now I need your commitment to step back.”
Bunny hesitated, mind racing. Agreeing would buy her freedom from this fluorescent purgatory, but it would also mean abandoning the investigation just as it was gaining momentum. Dash would think she’d ghosted him, potential leads would grow cold, and Carissa would have even more time to cover her tracks. Or worse: disappear permanently.
“I have a counter-proposal.” She offered, channeling her most persuasive development director energy.
“I’ll share everything I learn, every conversation, every suspicion. In return, you keep me in the loop on the official investigation.”
Lancaster looked at her as if she’d suggested they solve the case via interpretive dance.
“That’s not how this works.”
“It could be,” Bunny continued, Dash’s previous words flooding her mind, “People talk to me. Donors, staff, the fundraising circuit. They say things they’d never tell a police officer. I have access and context you don’t.”
“And what happens when your amateur meddling tips off our suspects or compromises evidence?”
“What happens when your suspect disappears to a non-extradition country while you’re following proper procedure?” Bunny shot back, cocking an eyebrow.
“The clock is ticking, Chief Lancaster. Carissa’s already in the Bahamas. How long before she’s somewhere you can’t touch her?”
Lancaster was silent for a long moment, studying Bunny with an expression that suggested she was reconsidering several life choices that had led her to this conversation.
“I’ll make you a one-time offer,” She finally said, “You bring any information directly to me– not to Detective Ramirez, not to some random officer, to me personally. You do not take independent action. You do not confront suspects. You do not share details of the investigation with anyone, including your screenwriting club friends.”
Bunny blinked in surprise.
“How did you–”
“We’re the police, Ms. Beaudoin. It’s our job to know things.” Lancaster’s expression remained severe.
“Do we have an understanding?”
It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than being shut out completely or spending the night explaining to Fenelope why she needed bail money.
“We have an understanding.” Bunny agreed.
“Good. Now about Mr. O’Neill–”
“If I’m going to be your unofficial eyes and ears, I need him,” Bunny interrupted, “He has information on the previous deaths that you haven’t shared with me.”
Lancaster’s eyes narrowed.
“Fine. But he operates under the same restrictions. And if either of you steps out of line, I’ll have you both brought up on obstruction charges so fast your heads will spin. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” Bunny said, fighting the urge to salute.
Lancaster stood, gathering her file.
“You’re free to go. And Ms. Beaudoin? Next time you arrange a clandestine meeting with your PI friend, try somewhere less obvious than Inman Park. The gazebo might as well have a sign that says ‘Suspicious Conversation In Progress.’”
As the door closed behind the chief, Bunny let out a long breath, slumping in her chair. Her phone buzzed again– three missed calls from Dash, and a text:
Where are you? Everything ok?
She stared at the screen, considering her response. The police were watching her, possibly listening to her calls. Carissa Levinson was in the Bahamas, potentially fleeing justice. And somewhere in between the islands and Magnolia Heights, a killer remained free, perhaps already selecting their next target.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then began to type:
Had an unexpected meeting with the police chief. Will explain later. Meet me at the Fox tomorrow. Third floor, costume storage. No one ever goes there.
She hit send, gathered her purse, and stepped out into the hallway where Detective Ramirez waited to escort her out. As they walked toward the exit, he cleared his throat awkwardly.
“For what it’s worth, Ms. Beaudoin, I think the chief is wrong about O’Neill’s theories. The connections between these deaths are too specific to be coincidence.”
Bunny glanced at him, reasessing. Perhaps not Detective Bambi after all. More like Detective Underestimated.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Ramirez’s voice dropped to nearly a whisper.
“Because Harold Finch wasn’t just Glen Valentino’s former business partner. He was scheduled to testify next month in a federal investigation into price-fixing in the pharmaceutical industry. A case that would have implicated Valentino in multiple felonies.”
They reached the front doors of the station, and Ramirez stepped back, his expression returning to professional neutrality.
“Have a good day, Ms. Beaudoin.” He concluded, stepping back to let her pass, face an impassable mask once again.
She was stunned, but stepped out of the door without tripping over her own two feet.
As she walked to her car, Bunny felt a new sense of urgency. This wasn’t just about a murder at a gala anymore. It was bigger, potentially much bigger, than she’d imagined. And despite Chief Lancaster’s warnings, she was now more determined than ever to get to the truth. Dash would be waiting. And this time, she had a lot more to tell him than just Carissa’s convenient vacation plans.
🀙🀚🀛🀜
The Fox Theater’s costume storage room was a graveyard of theatrical ambitions past– racks of period dresses from forgotten productions, boxes of improbably sized hats, and mannequins frozen in various states of sartorial distress. The smell of mothballs hung in the air. Bunny leaned against a trunk marked “Elizabethan Ruffs– DO NOT FOLD,” watching dust motes dance in the shaft of light from the single window. Dash arrived six minutes late, slightly out of breath, the furrow between his brows deeper than it had been the last time that they spoke. But she had to admit, there was something about seeing him slightly undone– tied askew, a wrinkle in his shirt, the careful composure cracked just enough to reveal the man beneath– that was totally doing it for her.
“You stood me up.” He said gruffly by way of greeting.
“Technically, I was detained by law enforcement. Different thing entirely.” She quipped, unable to stop the small smile from creeping up on her face as she watched him roll up his sleeves again.
“Chief Lancaster?” He asked.
“The very same,” Bunny shifted, causing something inside the trunk to make an ominous crinkling sound, “How’d you know?”
“She’s had a hard-on for shutting down my investigation since victim number two.”
Dash’s eyes swept the room with professional assessment.
“Nice choice of location. Very ‘Phantom of the Opera’ meets ‘CSI.’”
“Thanks. I figured if we’re going to have clandestine meetings about murder, we might as well embrace the aesthetic.”
Bunny gestured to the threadbare velvet settee.
“Have a seat. The lady of the house insists.”
Dash remained standing, hands in pockets.
Rude.
“What did Lancaster want?” He prodded, ever the unshaken investigator.
“To scare me off. Accused me of interfering with their investigation, threatened obstruction charges,” She paused, “She’s been following me. Knew about our planned meeting at the park.”
“Not surprising. She’s thorough. I’ll give her that.”
He moved closer, his voice dropping.
“What did you tell her?”
“That I’d play nice and share what I learn.”
His eyebrows shot up.
“And she bought that?”
“I can be very convincing. It’s how I convinced a hedge fund manager that supporting children’s theater would absolve him of his sins against humanity.” He let out a laugh at that and Bunny crossed her arms, pleased with herself while also cringing at the self-indulgent pleasure of an attractive man finding her funny.
“Besides, it’s not entirely a lie. I will share what I learn… after we’ve figured out who’s murdering Glen Valentino’s inner circle.” She concluded.
“So you’re committed now? No more waffling about whether this is a good idea?”
“Three people are dead, and the police are one step behind whoever’s responsible.” She said, lifting her chin.
“Also, I ran into an unexpectedly helpful detective.”
“Ramirez,” Dash finished knowingly, “Good kid. Too smart for his own career prospects.”
“He told me something interesting. Harold Finch was scheduled to testify next month in a federal investigation into price-fixing at Valentino Pharmaceuticals.”
Dash’s eyes sharpened.
“That’s new information. Explains why someone might want him permanently silent.” He muttered.
He moved to the window, scanning the alley below before turning back to her.
“Tell me about the auction. The timing strikes me as convenient.”
“In what way?”
“The lot that triggered the bidding war. Was it always scheduled for that point in the evening?”
Bunny’s eyes widened slightly.
“No. It wasn’t. The Tuscan villa was supposed to be the grand finale. Mickey was going to use it as the big send-off to get everyone excited about the fund-a-need that followed.”
“But it came earlier?”
“Yes.”
She stood up suddenly, pacing between costume racks.
“Fenelope and Mickey had a conversation right before the auction started. I remember thinking it was odd because Fenelope usually lets Mickey run the auction his way– he’s got a system. But she was insistent about something.”
“The order of the lots.” Dash concluded.
“Must have been. Because suddenly the villa was up right after I returned to the room– I’d left to check something.” She explained.
And then, she stopped, her hand clutching a sequined sailor suit.
“How could I not have noticed that?” She asked, turning to look at the PI.
“It’s what I do for a living,” Dash said without a hint of smugness, “The sequence matters. Carissa gives Glen medication he doesn’t take. Fenelope moves up an auction lot, triggering a bidding war between exes. The tension escalates, Glen storms out taking his entourage with him, including a disoriented Harold Finch.”
“Creating the perfect opportunity for a fatal ‘accident,’” Bunny finished, “But that would mean Fenelope was involved.”
“Or manipulated,” Dash suggested, “Did anyone else speak to her before the auction?”
Bunny’s brow furrowed.
“I don’t know. I was busy playing traffic cop for the one percenters.”
“Okay– never mind that then.” Dash paused, pulling a notepad from his shirt pocket and scribbling quickly.
“It’s the pharmaceutical angle that interests me,” He continued in the silence, keeping his eyes glued on Bunny, “All three victims had inside knowledge of Valentino’s business practices.”
“Which means Glen is the logical suspect,” Bunny concluded, “Eliminating witnesses before they can testify.”
“Except he was nearly a victim himself,” Dash countered, “You saw Carissa give him the same pills she gave Harold.”
“But Glen didn’t take his. At least not that I saw.”
“Or they weren’t the same pills.”
Dash began pacing, his footsteps muffled by a fallen feather boa.
“What if someone’s protecting Glen, not targeting him?” He asked, flipping through his notebook with new found energy.
“Someone who knows enough about his business to identify threats. Someone with access to belladonna derivatives. Someone who might still care about him despite appearances to the contrary.”
They looked at each other, the same name hovering between them.
“His ex-wife.” Bunny said.
“Currently vacationing in the Bahamas.” Dash added.
“What do we know about her, besides the usual stuff?” Bunny asked, sinking back down onto the trunk and displacing a cloud of dust that danced in the late afternoon light.
Dash consulted his notes.
“Uh, let’s see– Carissa Levinson, 54, partner at Hargrove & Bennett, specializing in corporate litigation. Divorced Glen Valentino six years ago after fifteen years of marriage. No children,” His eyebrows rose slightly, “The divorce settlement was surprisingly modest given Valentino’s net worth. And she’s never gone back to ask for more spousal support.”
“So, hypothetically speaking, if she’s ‘protecting him’… maybe she’s doing it so that she can go back for the money,” Bunny thought aloud, rolling a stray costume bead between her fingers, “Maybe she wanted something to give her leverage?”
“Like what?”
“His freedom,” She said. The bead dropped from her fingers, rolling across the floor like an escaping thought, “His freedom in exchange for a larger settlement.”
Now it was Dash’s turn to furrow his brows.
“There has got to be a better way to get a bigger check from an ex-husband than poisoning.”
“No, but it might be useful to eliminate said ex-husband’s enemies,” Bunny stood, energy propelling her forward, “If I were her, I’d hold something like that over his head for years, especially if I got away with it.”
She ignored Dash’s concerned frown.
“I’m not a sociopath. Promise.”
“Convincing.” He mumbled, twirling the pen around his middle finger.
“Here’s a theory,” She continued, “Glen’s company is under federal investigation. Carissa, as a high-powered attorney, would understand exactly how much trouble he’s in. She might even have inside information.”
“Through her law firm,” Dash nodded slowly, conceding slightly, “Service firms talk. Papers get served. Rumors circulate.”
“Exactly. She knows he’s guilty–”
“ – And knows who can testify against him,” Dash’s eyes lit with realization,“Starting with Maurice Katz, his legal counsel who might have been preparing to turn state’s evidence for immunity.”
“Then Catherine Winters, the CFO who controlled financial records.”
“And finally, Harold Finch, former business partner with knowledge of the company’s early practices,” Dash continued, “All three were in positions to confirm Valentino’s involvement in the price-fixing scheme.”
“She wasn’t trying to hurt Glen with those pills at the gala,” Bunny said, the pieces falling into place, “She was maintaining her cover. She gives him harmless antacids regularly– a habit from her marriage. But gave Harold the deadly version.”
“And who would question an ex-wife performing a familiar gesture of concern? Especially when she’d already done the same for her former husband…” Dash trailed off, “It’s almost elegant.”
“During my conversation with Siobhan,” Bunny pressed, “She mentioned that her firm and Carissa’s use the same service vendors. What if the first victim– Maurice Katz– received his dose at a function Siobhan attended?”
Dash’s expression darkened.
“That’s worth checking,” He pulled out his phone, scrolling rapidly, “Let me run a quick skip trace. Siobhan Reid, Magnolia Heights area, legal functions in the six months prior to Katz’s death.”
His fingers moved efficiently across the screen, accessing databases Bunny was fairly certain weren’t open to the general public. After a moment, he looked up with newfound intensity.
“Three hits. Siobhan and Maurice Katz both attended the Georgia Bar Association's annual charity golf tournament in May, the Hargrove & Bennett summer associate reception in June, and– this is interesting– the Legal Aid fundraiser at the St. Regis in July.”
“The golf tournament is where Katz collapsed.” Bunny recalled.
“Yes, but the Legal Aid event is more relevant. Guess who else was there?”
“Carissa?”
“And Glen Valentino. He was a major donor.”
Dash’s face took on the alert concentration of a predator sensing movement.
“And Catherine Winters.”
“Victim number two,” Bunny whispered, “They were all there?”
“According to the event photos and attendance list.”
He turned his phone to show her a society page photo: Glen Valentino standing between Maurice Katz and Catherine Winters, champagne flutes raised, with Carissa visible in the background, watching them with an unreadable expression.
“Jesus,” Bunny breathed, “It’s like a preview of coming attractions, except everyone’s dying instead of getting Oscar nominations.”
“There’s more,” Dash continued scrolling, “Winters died a day after this event. ‘Allergic reaction’ at a pharmaceutical industry dinner.”
“Where Carissa wasn’t present?”
“No, but her firm was representing a client at the same event. She had access.”
“So she’s been planning this for months. Watching, waiting for opportunities. Eliminating threats to Glen one by one, at different events, through different methods but always with the same poison, But–” Bunny stood again, unable to contain the nervous energy, “ – Why the same poison? Seems risky.”
Dash shut off his phone, his expression thoughtful.
“It’s her signature. Some killers need that consistency, that… ritual. Like she’s playing a role she’s committed to,” He paused, looking directly at Bunny, “And she’s not done yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“If her motive is protecting Glen from legal consequences, there are likely other witnesses she’s targeted. People who could testify about the price-fixing.”
“People who might be at risk right now.” Bunny finished, a chill settling over her.
“Exactly.”
Dash stood, pocketing his recorder. Bunny shuddered.
“He never stood a chance, did he?” She asked
“Not if Carissa planned it this carefully,” Dash answered bleakly, tapping his pen against the page, “We need to find out who else knew about Glen’s activities. And we need to do it before Carissa does.”
Bunny nodded, feeling the weight of their discoveries settle on her shoulders like one of the heavy theatrical capes hanging nearby.
“And to think, I used to believe the most dangerous part of my job was the small talk at donor dinners.” She muttered.
“Small talk rarely leads to belladonna poisoning,” Dash murmured, twisting his lips into a wry grin, “Though I’d argue it’s equally painful.”
“A man after my own heart,” Bunny replied, surprising herself with the warmth in her voice, “Cynical and factual.”
“I prefer ‘realistic’ and ‘evidence-based.’” He countered.
“Funny– I believe Captain Lancaster actually referred to your approach as ‘conspiracy theories’ and that you were ‘dragging me down with your delusions.’” She cracked back.
There was a pause, and Bunny suddenly felt self-conscious.
Too far?
But then the private investigator let out another laugh. Bunny laughed nervously next to him, relieved that she didn’t offend.
“I’m the one spinning conspiracy theories and yet we have something that Lancaster doesn’t.”
Dash leaned against a rack of Rockette costumes that complained under his weight, his angular features relaxing into a smile.
“What’s that?”
“Understanding of motive. If Carissa is killing to protect Glen for her own gain, she’s not driven by emotion, just cold calculation. People driven by emotion make mistakes.”
“And she hasn’t so far,” Bunny pointed out, checking her watch, “Three deaths, no arrests.”
It was nearly one in the afternoon. They’d been dissecting murders for ages in a room that seemed to be actively trying to suffocate them with historical fabric dust.
“We need to verify her connection to the federal investigation,” Dash said, “And we need to find out if there are more potential witnesses on her hit list.”
“I can ask about the investigation through the Fox’s corporate connects,” Bunny offered, “We have board members who–”
The vibration of her phone interrupted her. She pulled it from her pocket, frowning at the unfamiliar email notification.
“What is it?” Dash asked, noting her confused expression.
“An email.”
She opened it, her frown deepening.
“From Carissa Levinson.”