Page 1 of King of Hollywood

Chapter one

It was a nice night for murder. The worried pitter-patter of Felix Finley’s feet was annoying, but not annoying enough to dampen my mood. Cicadas chirped. Not a single rock slipped into my loafers. It was pleasantly chill beneath the thick foliage of the forest. And the body I currently had slung over my shoulder was lighter than expected, despite being dead weight—literally. Ha.

If one of my coworkers had asked me if I was doing something fun over the weekend I never would’ve expected to tell them yes. And I was—having fun, I mean. Because I was spending my few off-hours helping my very troubled, very odd, very pretty neighbor dispose of the body of the man he’d “accidentally” killed.

I say “accidentally” (in quotations) not because I think behind his bumbling facade that he’s actually an evil mastermind, but because as the only serial killer that lived in our cul-de-sac, I figured I was kind of an expert.

I’d always been a practical person. Logical to a fault. Stubborn, maybe, if you ask my sisters. I rarely opened up. Rarely got excited. Rarely had fun—because fun (according to most) tended to be a complicated, awkward thing that involved too many people.

Which is why this was quite monumental.

“Are you sure we won’t get caught?” the small blond fretted. I ignored his worries, determined to waste as little energy as possible on him, as I had much more efficient uses for it at the moment. “Marshall?”

“Finley,” I injected as much ire into my voice as possible. “It is quite difficult to carry on while you are yapping at me.” It wasn’t, not really, but he didn’t need to know that. The scent of the garbage bags Felix had used to cover the body clogged my nose, but I managed to ignore it, my mood too chipper for even plastic to ruin.

We were going through the back of the property, as I didn’t think it was a good idea for the general population of our small mountain town to recognize how often I visited the local crematory.

Once a year to be exact. On my sister’s birthday.

“Yes, yes. Sorry. My apologies.” Finally, silence. At least, there was silence—for a solid…ninety seconds? But who’s counting? “It’s just—” Lord, give me patience. “Well…I’ve never done this before.”

“I can tell.” It was difficult not to scoff. I wasn’t sure I managed. Though Felix didn’t seem to notice.

“You’re unfazed,” he added, hopping along beside me, having to work twice as hard to keep pace. I blamed his shrimpy legs, as they were a quarter of the length of mine. Oddly enough, he reminded me of the chihuahua we’d had growing up. It’d chased us around on its tiny little legs, constantly getting in our business, nosy bastard. Only, Felix was more muscular than a chihuahua, and somehow yappier too. “But of course you are! I mean, you’re you, Marshall. You’re never fazed. It’s like your super power.”

His voice quaked, and he was so distracted that he nearly ran head first into a low hanging branch. Shifting the body on my shoulder, I lifted the branch just in time. Felix strode right through where it had been, completely unaware that he’d almost gotten brained.

Amazing. Truly. I’d never met a more oblivious person.

Don’t mistake me for a good Samaritan.

I didn’t help him out of a misplaced sense of chivalry.

I simply didn’t think Felix had any brain cells to lose. I was only protecting my peace, as I was the one that had to suffer through living across the street from him. It wasn’t that I liked Felix or anything, or that—despite his penchant for leaving packages out on his doorstep all day long, his unkempt lawn, and his apparent allergy to sunlight—he was my favorite person in all of Beach Town.

I didn’t pick favorites. (Why would I, when everyone sucked?)

I didn’t like people. (What was there to like?)

I didn’t help people. (A waste of time, if you ask anyone with sense.)

Except for…today. Now. This specific, very bloody situation. I still hadn’t figured out how exactly Felix Finley of all people had managed to murder a man. But I figured once the body was taken care of, there’d be plenty of time to question him.

The prospect made me almost giddy.

Would he talk in circles? Would he lie? Would he fake innocence?

I couldn’t wait.

And yet, somehow, Felix was still fucking talking.

“Like last year!” he chirped, as though I’d given him any sort of indication that I wanted him to continue his inane chatter. “When Barry hosted his annual Summer Bash in his backyard and told everyone to dress up in Hawaiian shirts.” Did he always talk this much? Or was he nervous? I suppose dead bodies could do that to some people. “Only, he changed his mind last minute about the theme—when you were out of town. He left a note on the door, but you must not have seen it—because when you got back, you showed up to the party in a rather spectacular shade of pink.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“With flamingos.”

As if I could forget the flamingos.