The detective’s lieutenant has passed along some details already, but she wants to walk it through herself a few more times, the literal space and the scenario in her mind. She needs to get a feel of this place… She needs to know what happened, and how a joyous night could turn out so devastating. So tragic… so grisly.

Six women were present at the party and now one of them is dead.

The remaining five are in custody, secured and separated at the scene, and now awaiting questions down at the station. Hopefully being managed with care until we have more information, the detective thinks to herself.

The detective stops in the doorway of a massive library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves are crammed with heavy volumes and tomes. She prides herself on her eye for order. Whoever the caretaker of this place might be, they certainly have an eye for order too, she realizes.

The books are organized by height and width, the thickest and tallest volumes on the left, cascading from left to right, growing thinner and shorter, all the way to the smallest and narrowest volumes. It flows seamlessly… perfectly.

The detective’s eyes roam the spines, left to right then down a row, right to left… It takes her less than a minute to find it—the chaos mingling with the order.

The offender is a thick red tome inched between two narrow tomes of the same height.

As she removes it, slowly and with care, she realizes the book isn’t red at all. Rather, it is meant to be brown, but something has stained the corner of the heavy paperboard binding and leaked down the sides of it.

The detective turns it over and back, stares at the thick clump of hair and scalp attached to the sharpest edge. Her body jolts with surprise and revulsion.

“I need help in here,” she whisper-shouts, hands shaky from the weight of the book, and the horror of what has happened here.

The detective’s voice booms around the cavernous space, echoing back in her face. This place feels less like a historical monument and more like an ill-fated tomb, she thinks, hairs rising on the back of her neck for the first time all night.

Earlier, the detective saw pictures of the women: a fun-filled weekend, a celebration of what should have been one of the best moments in life, an event catalogued in real time with the help of social media and social influence…

But all the filters in the world can’t hide this sort of darkness.

They could cover up their flaws and grievances with Gingham or Valencia filters, but no amount of lighting or special effects could change what one of them has done…

A monster in a pretty dress is still a monster.

Part One

“A little party never killed nobody.”

— Fergie

Chapter One

ROSALEE

The bride-to-be