BEFORE WE BEGIN
So let’s get this out of the way: in the story that follows, I will die.
Yes, yes. I’m spoiling my own story at the literal beginning. And that was very morbid. Gosh. Sorry about that. I’m actually not very good at this. And in my defense, though, I didn’t exactly stay dead.
I got better. Sort of.
Emotionally? No, still an emotional disaster. Spiritually? Also no.
But physically? Yes. Barely. Let’s call it undead-adjacent.
Anyway—weddings. Joy! Henna! Commitment! Patriarchal constructs! Passive-aggressive relatives! Secrets no one is supposed to know and absolutely everyone knows anyway!
It’s a whole thing, actually. But here’s what they didn’t print on the invitation: people are going to die.
Not all by murder. But all with motive.
I should know. I was one of them. (Not the murderer, obviously. The murdered. Well, sort of. Slight technicality.)
Anyway, welcome to the most expensive cover-up money can buy.
Cue curtain fall.
Cue body count.
