Avery adjusted a crooked candlestick on the long dining table, then stepped back to survey the room. The ballroom was grand and theatrical—draped in black velvet, layered with dried roses, and glowing beneath the low flicker of candlelight. It was nearly perfect. Every detail had been placed with intention.
She flipped a page in her planner and checked the time. Technically, the party wouldn’t begin for another hour, yet the first guests had already started to arrive.
The theme was Masquerade Mayhem. A classic murder-mystery experience, threaded with subtle nods to Halloween. The guest list was designed to be mostly spectators, with one carefully concealed suspect hidden among them, and professional actors brought in to play the victims. The rules were simple, the execution anything but.
The venue itself was part of the performance. A sprawling estate owned by her client, Vivian Langford, tucked deep into the woods just outside Washington, D.C. Elegant. Secluded. Whisper-quiet.
The concept had been Vivian’s from the beginning, and she was a woman who demanded perfection- or at least the illusion of it. Ruthless and regal, she was known throughout D.C. as the “Velvet Hammer.” Now in her early fifties, Vivian had traded life as a political consultant for that of a full-time socialite, caring far more about the timing of her dramatic costume reveal than the six-figure catering budget.
For the guests, the challenge was deceptively simple: talk, observe, connect the dots to find the killer. The twist came with the costumes. Nearly everyone would arrive masked and disguised, faces obscured and identities blurred, eliminating visual cues altogether. Guests would have to rely on conversation, behavior, and instinct rather than preconceived notions of who anyone was. No one had been told which participants were actors, further dissolving the line between performance and reality.
It was, Avery thought, a brilliant idea.
Most people wouldn’t expect a former military police investigator to end up arranging floral installations and choreographing champagne toasts. But Avery had always lived comfortably in high-pressure spaces. She was detail-obsessed, calm under stress, always thinking several steps ahead.
Her early career had been spent chasing down small infractions on military bases—missing gear, late-night fights, the occasional contraband bottle hidden in a footlocker. It was steady, honorable work. The real shift came when she volunteered—well, was voluntold—to plan her unit’s annual ball. No one else had stepped up.
“Have Sloan do it,” they’d joked.
Turns out, she had a knack for it.
Venue. Timeline. Logistics. She mapped it out like a mission. By the end of the night, people were asking who she’d hired- Except she hadn’t, and for the first time in years, she’d felt excited.
When she left the service, she leaned in.
Now, years later, she ran Porchlight- a full-service firm known for planning and coordinating high-impact events. The name came from something her grandfather used to say while she was deployed: “I’ll leave the porch light on for when you get back.” It had stuck. Comforting. Personal. A reminder that even the biggest moments in life should feel like coming home.
Tonight’s event, however, was anything but cozy.
The guest list required an actual security clearance to manage, and luckily, she already had one. No extra hoops. No explanations. Easy.
It had taken two years to plan. What began as a simple Halloween party had evolved into a full-scale production—actors, costume staff, live musicians, custom cocktails, and a room filled with elected officials, billionaires, and political untouchables.
Technically, the Vice President had RSVP’d yes. But that morning, his office sent a single line:
“Apologies. Change in schedule.”
Avery didn’t buy it. Someone had either spooked him or decided this wasn’t the kind of room he needed to be seen in. Even several senators had been “strongly advised” to skip the event due to security concerns. Some ignored the advice, ditching their security details to attend anyway. Vivian, apparently, had that kind of pull.
Avery’s assistant, Jules, appeared at her side, half-dressed in a pirate costume and holding an iPad like a riot shield. She was thrilled to be costumed. Vivian had demanded it. Avery had fought it. The compromise: Jules would dress up, but Avery would remain in her black polo and khakis, clearly identifiable as staff if anything went wrong.
“Guests are starting to arrive,” Jules said. “The actor’s are in makeup. Catering confirmed the smoke machine for the poison-themed cocktails is working. But someone asked if the knives on the tables are real. Kinda weird.”
Avery raised an eyebrow. “Who’s asking?”
“One of the senator’s staffers. Probably trying to feel important.”
Avery crossed the room, Jules in tow, her heels echoing softly against the polished floor. They stopped in front of the grand marble mantel. Avery’s gaze landed on the antique dagger sitting right where she left it. But something wasn’t right.
The white tag she’d attached that morning, clearly marked PROP, was gone.
“Please double-check every weapon before game-time,” she said quietly.
“Already on the list,” Jules replied, tapping the screen of her iPad.
Avery reached into her pocket and pulled out a replacement tag and secured it to the dagger’s hilt. She adjusted it slightly, aligning it with the candlesticks on either side, then stepped back for one final scan of the room.
Lighting, perfect.
Staff, in position.
Music, already playing.
She exhaled.
Pressure. Precision. The art of pretending everything was fine even when sometimes it wasn’t. This was what she was built for.
Avery smoothed her blazer and adjusted her earpiece.
“Ready?” she asked. “Let’s go turn the porch lights on.”
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