Death Wears… A Wedding Veil?
Coming Soon
Twenty-two years ago, therapist Cassandra Reeves made a choice that saved her career and shattered her heart. Now, at a dinner party hosted by her well-meaning colleague, she comes face to face with the man she never stopped loving—Dr. Jonathan Hartwell, the brilliant researcher whose reputation she once helped protect by walking away.
When Bunny Beaudoin arrives at an exclusive academic wedding as a last-minute guest, she expects champagne toasts and awkward dancing—not a body in the bride’s dressing room and a guest list full of people with PhDs in deception. As Bunny peels back layers of academic scandal, forbidden affairs, and professional betrayals, she discovers that some secrets don’t just haunt you—they hunt you.
In this twisty second installment of the Bunny Beaudoin mysteries, our favorite development-director-turned-detective must navigate the cutthroat world of academia, where tenure isn’t the only thing worth killing for, and where the deadliest weapon might just be the truth.
For fans of dark romantic suspense who like their mysteries with heat, heart, and a body count.
The Bordeaux was excellent– a 2015 that Daniel had been saving, he’d mentioned it twice now– and the conversations had moved from tenure politics to the ethics of psilocybin. Cassandra found herself nodding along, her wine glass balanced carefully in her fingers as she listened to the familiar cadence of academic discourse.
She’d almost declined Elena’s invitation. The semester had been draining, and the thought of small talk with Daniel’s colleagues had felt like another performance she wasn’t sure she could manage. But Elena had insisted, and Cassandra had found herself standing in their renovated Victorian, admiring the carefully curated blend of mid-century furniture and contemporary art that spoke of taste rather than ostentation.
“The unknowns are huge,” someone was saying— a woman from the university hospital whose name Cassandra had already forgotten. “What if someone experiences something they can’t integrate?”
Daniel leaned back in his chair, gesturing with his fork. “That’s exactly what Jonathan was arguing in his recent paper. Weren’t you, Jon?”
It was then that Cassandra looked up from her salmon and saw him.
Twenty-two years. She knew it immediately, the way you know the exact count of days since something changed you. He was seated diagonally across from her, far enough that she’d somehow missed him in the initial flurry of introductions and wine pouring. His hair was silver now, properly silver rather than the distinguished gray it had been becoming when she’d last seen him. He wore it shorter. The lines around his eyes had deepened.
He was looking directly at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice sounded normal, which surprised her. “I didn’t catch your last name.”
“Hartwell,” he said. “Jonathan Hartwell.”
Elena, bless her, was oblivious. “Oh, you two should have so much to talk about. Cassandra was in private practice back in Pennsylvania. And Jonathan practically invented half the therapeutic techniques Daniel’s students use.”
“I hardly invented anything,” Jonathan said, but he was still booking at Cassandra. “Ms…?”
“Reeves,” she supplied. “Cassandra Reeves.”
The conversation resumed around them, something about research methodologies now, but Cassandra found herself studying the way Jonathan held his wine glass, the way he nodded at appropriate intervals while clearly not hearing a word. When Daniel’s wife began clearing plates, she rose to help, grateful for the excuse to move.
In the kitchen, Elena was arranging cheese on a wooden board with the focused attention of someone who’d taken a class on entertaining. “Gorgeous man, isn’t he?” she said without looking up. “Jonathan. Single, too, though Daniel says he’s been that way for a while. Very dedicated to his work, apparently.”
Cassandra picked up a small knife and began cutting fig slices with unnecessary prevision. “Is that so?”
“I thought you might find him interesting. You know, intellectually. Daniel says he’s brilliant— a bit intimidating, actually. He was Daniel’s supervisor years ago, back when Daniel was still finding his feet. Now they’re more like colleagues, though you can tell Daniel still looks up to him,” Elaine bubbled along in that sweet, ebullient way that women did when they weren’t yet old and complicated and guarded. When they weren’t like Cassandra.
Through the doorway, Cassandra could see Jonathan listening politely to something the hospital woman was explaining, his fingers turning his wine glass in small rotations on the white tablecloth.
“He seems very… accomplished,” Cassandra said carefully.
“Oh, he is. Published everywhere, speaks at conferences internationally. But Daniel says he’s actually quite warm once you get to know him. Lonely, maybe. I think that’s why Daniel keeps inviting him to these things.” Elena glanced up with a conspiratorial smile. “Between you and me, I’ve been trying to set him up for months. But he never seems interested.”
The rest of the evening passed in careful choreography. Cassandra found herself gravitating toward conversations on the opposite side of the room from Jonathan, discussing semester abroad programs with Daniel while hyper-aware of Jonathan’s voice behind her, explaining something about cognitive behavioral applications to Elena’s book club friend. When coffee was served, she chose the chair facing away from him. When he moved to the window to examine Daniel’s new acquisition– a small Rothko print— she busied herself asking Elena about the recipe for the pear tart.
But she could feel him watching her. The way she used to feel it across conference rooms and meetings, that particular weight of his attention. Once, reaching for her coffee cup, she glanced up to find him looking at her from across the room. Neither of them looked away immediately.
By ten-thirty, people were beginning to gather coats and make their exit pleasantries. Cassandra had drunk more wine than she’d intended, just enough to feel the edges of everything slightly softened. The academic chatter that had filled the evening was beginning to feel oppressive and dry. All those conscientious words, the measured opinions.
“Elena,” she found herself saying, “would it be alright if I stepped outside for a moment? The air’s gotten a bit close.”
“Of course, darling. The veranda’s lovely this time of night. There’s a throw on one of the chairs if you get cold.”
The French doors opened onto a narrow covered porch that overlooked Elena’s carefully tended garden. October air hit her skin, sharp and clean after the warmth of the house. She could hear the dinner party continuing behind her, muffled voices and the clink of glasses being cleared. The porch light cast everything in amber, and she wrapped her arms around herself, breathing deeply.
She heard the door open behind her but didn’t turn.
“I thought you might be out here,” Jonathan said quietly.
She closed her eyes.
Here we go.
“How long has it been since you’ve seen Daniel? Since you worked together?” She spoke first.
“Three years, maybe four. We keep in touch.” He moved to the railing beside her, not quite close enough to touch. “Elena seems lovely.”
“She is. She’s been very kind to me since I moved here.”
“When did you move here?”
“Two years ago. After Warnell died.”
The words hung between them in the cool air. Inside, someone was laughing— Daniel, probably, at something Elena had said.
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said finally. “About your husband.”
She nodded, still not looking at him. “It was expected. Cancer. Long illness.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No.” She turned then, and found him watching her with the same meticulous attention she remembered. “It doesn’t.”
He was quiet for a moment, and she could see him working through something, the way his jaw tightened slightly. “But two years?” The question came out rougher than he’d intended. “You’ve been here for two years and… you didn’t write. You didn’t text.”
She looked down at her hands gripping the railing. “Jonathan.”
“I’m not—” He stopped, took a breath. “I’m not asking for an explanation. I just… I lived forty minutes away, Cassie. All this time.”
The old nickname hit her like a physical thing. She hadn’t heard it in over two decades, hadn’t heard anyone called her that since her mother died. Warnell hadn’t even called her Cassie.
“I know how far you live,” she said quietly. “I looked it up.”
“You looked it up.”
“When I was considering the position here. When I saw the job posting.” She finally turned to face him fully. “I saw it was close to you, and I almost didn’t apply.”
“But you did.”
“I did.” She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “My husband was gone, my daughter was settled in Portland, and I needed… I needed to start over somewhere. This position was perfect. The research opportunities, the department, everything I’d been looking for.”
“Except for the proximity to me.”
She met his eyes then. “Except for that.”
A car passed on the street below, its headlights briefly illuminating the garden before disappearing. From inside came the sound of chairs scraping against hardwood. People getting ready to leave.
“So you’ve been here knowing I was close by and you never…”
“What would I have said?” The words came out sharper than she’d meant them. “Hello, Jonathan, I’m recently widowed and I’ve moved to your city, thought you should know?”
“Maybe. Yes.” His voice was steady but she could hear the hurt underneath. “Maybe exactly that.”
The silence stretched between them. Inside, she could hear the warm sound of people who belonged easily in each other’s lives.
“You think it was easy?” she said finally. “Driving past the exit to your neighborhood every day on my way to campus? Seeing your name on conference programs and wondering if you’d be there?”
He stepped closer then, close enough that she could smell his cologne. Different now, something woodier than what he used to wear. “Was it? Easy?”
“No.” The word came out small, weak, cracked. “It was torture.”
Something shifted in his expression, and when he reached for her, she didn’t step away. His hands found her arms, just above the elbows, the way they used to when he was trying to steady her, trying to make her listen.
“It still hasn’t passed,” he said, his voice dropping. Those eyes, the ones that still glowed as if he were lit from the inside, searched her face.
“What? What hasn’t passed?” She nearly whispered, her own eyes threatening to spill the tears she’d so successfully held back, asking the question she already knew the answer to.
“Whatever this is between us. It hasn’t passed for me.”
She felt her breath catch. “Jonathan.”
“You said it would,” he continued, and she could see the years in his face now, the way time had carved deeper lines around his mouth. “That last night, you said time would take care of it. That we’d both move on and it would just be… a chapter we’d remember fondly.”
Her hands had found their way to his chest without her permission, resting against the soft wool of his sweater. She could feel his heartbeat underneath.
“I remember what I said.”
“Do you remember what you didn’t say?”
She looked up at him then, really looked, and saw the question he’d been carrying. The one he’d never asked.
“You want to know if I meant it.”
He nodded, and the vulnerability in the gesture was so familiar it made her chest ache.
“I thought I did,” she whispered. “I thought if I said it convincingly enough, it would become true.”
His thumb traced along her jawline, a touch so gently it was barely there. “And did it? Become true?” His voice, coarse and low, could not disguise the sadness. Tears caught in her throat and she watched as a single drop fell, darkening as a small, black spot against her denim jeans.
“It hasn’t passed for me. Not for me either.”
