Hazel’s expression hardens, her elaborate costume suddenly looking less like a fun Halloween outfit and more like armor at this point. “This is ridiculous. You have no proof of anything.”
“We have plenty,” I counter, holding up my phone where one of the medical ethics blog posts is still displayed. “According to this, you were the lead researcher on Serenix, an anti-anxiety medication that showed serious adverse reactions in early trials.”
Buffy nods. “But instead of reporting those reactions, you buried the data, marking participants as non-compliant with study protocols to keep them out of the final analysis.”
“Six months after the drug was approved based on your falsified research,” I say, watching the color drain from Hazel’s face, “six patients died from complications that your original data had actually predicted.”
“Meridian arranged for you to quietly resign before the FDA investigation gained momentum,” Buffy adds. “They let you pursue other opportunities instead of facing criminal charges.”
“Your YouTube channel isn’t just a hobby,” I drive the point home. “It’s your financial lifeline, your only source of professional credibility left.”
Buffy’s chest expands with her next breath. “And Heath, with his habit of digging into everyone’s past, had uncovered the whole story.”
Hazel’s composure cracks for a moment before she reconstructs her mask of indignation. “This is absurd. You’re making wild accusations based on internet rumors and blog posts.”
“Are we?” I ask, keeping my voice steady. “Because Heath’s search history will confirm everything. And I’m betting the FDA would be very interested in reopening their investigation with this new information.”
“I didn’t kill Heath,” Hazel insists, but her voice lacks conviction. “If anyone had a motive, it was Buffy.”
Buffy inches back, surprise written across her zombie makeup. “What?”
“There was evidence at the scene,” Hazel says, a calculating gleam in her eye. “Evidence pointing directly to you.”
I pull up my phone again, this time opening a photo from the crime scene that I snapped that night with Heath lying on the ground, the knife protruding from his chest. I turn the screen toward Hazel, whose eyes narrow as she studies it.
“See that?” she says, pointing to something on the screen. “Look at the glitter.”
Sure enough, there’s a scattering of green sparkles across the corpse, glinting in the camera flash—the same sparkles I remember noticing the night of the murder.
“There’s green glitter all over him,” Hazel points out triumphantly. “That means Buffy did it. She was wearing those green ridiculous antennae.”
She’s lying,Fish yowls.Okay, so maybe she’s not lying, but she clearly set the woman up. She’s desperately scrambling for a scapegoat.
“It’s not true. I didn’t do this,” Buffy protests, her voice rising inpanic. “I don’t know how that glitter got all over him. But then it got all over me, too.”
“Who brought those pumpkin antennae that night?” I ask, remembering the bobbing headbands both women had worn at the festival—Hazel’s orange, Buffy’s green.
Buffy points at Hazel and Hazel points at Buffy.
She doesn’t stand a chance.Hazel gives a little laugh with the thought.No one will believe her over me.
“Bizzy, you have to believe me,” Buffy pleads with genuine fear in her eyes.
“She picked up the knives, too,” Hazel adds, her lips twitching into a dark smile.
“Wait a minute,” Buffy says, breathing faster now. “Youaskedme to pick those up. You said you were running late, and that’s why I did it.”
Hazel tilts her head, the picture of mock sympathy. “Nice cover, but no one will believe you. You just admitted that you picked up those blades.”
“They were fake,” Buffy says, blinking rapidly in confusion.
“But the blade that killed him was not,” Hazel points out like the menace she is.
Buffy’s mouth falls open in shock. “Hazel, you said they were replicas from a knife your father once owned. You said you had them made to order specially for the club’s photos.”
Hazel’s chin lifts a notch, a tell-tale sign of defensiveness.
“If that’s true,” I say, the pieces clicking together in my mind, “then that means the original knife belonged to your father.”
