It was cold—the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, turning blood to ice and rendering muscles so rigid, they can't even shiver to warm up. Why on Earth my sister would have a beach wedding right before Christmas in Maine was beyond my comprehension.

I glanced down at my wrist to check the time, only to remember that my sister had confiscated my watch until after the wedding ceremony and reception. She said that the most humiliating thing in the entire world would be to have her brother check his watch while she was walking down the aisle. It would be a sign to all of the guests that I was counting the minutes until I could go home. I had never been one to give false impressions, so I didn't see what the big deal was.

To be honest, I would have never attended the event in the first place. The only reason why I was there was because three years ago, I had a case that took me all the way from Massachusetts to California, where my sister was living. I was following a serial killer, who committed a total of twenty-four murders across the USA in only two months. He was known as the grey-stripe killer, since his signature murder weapon was strangling women with a grey-striped tie.

My sister, despite my protests, had insisted on helping me catch the murderer. As it turns out, she was the exact type that the criminal had been after—tall, blonde, gray-eyed, and just a few freckles dotting rosy cheeks. Very specific, I know. The fact that he had tracked down twenty-four women like that was once again beyond my comprehension. Regardless, my sister posed as his next victim, lured him into a trap, and yada yada yada, we caught the bad guy and sent him to prison. The end? No.

My sister demanded one, free favor in return for her services. The thought of it makes my blood boil. Like, did I ask for your help? No. Did I ask you to risk your life? No! I had everything under control!

When I first got her invitation in the mail, I marched straight to the phone. Unfortunately, my Mom was the first to call me up and guilt tripped me into attending.

How could I possibly say no to my mother?

So there I was, standing around the pews of the wedding church awkwardly while awaiting the wedding march. I glanced up at a large clock hanging on the wall. It was ten minutes past the time that the wedding was to begin. What's taking so long?

I peered around the church crowded with men, women, and children. No one else seemed to be too concerned with the lack of time management. Figures. After all, they are my sister's friends.

At last, I spotted something of interest. George Venor, the groom's best man, ran from the backstage of the church to the minister standing nearby. I craned my ear to hear what they were saying.

"What?" the minister said, tearing off his spectacles.

"Yes," George said, breathless. "He's been stabbed right in the heart. There's blood all over his rented, white suit."

The way George emphasized the groom's suit made me think that he was more concerned about the rental then the deadman.

"Where's Meg?" the minister asked.

"I have no idea," George said. "I just asked Henrietta, and she said that she saw her dash out of the dressing room twenty minutes ago, saying that she needed some fresh air. She was in her wedding gown and everything."

That was all I needed to hear. I pushed my way through the crowd and exited the church. I was greeted by a blanket of pure white snow. Oh, wow. Of course it would be snowing. For a moment, I nearly dashed inside to throw my winter coat over my suit. But my eyes caught on a trail of footprints heading to the beach. I ran over and followed the trail.

I quickly realized that the snow was not pure white. No, I could see red droplets sparkling in the sunlight. Blood. I forced myself to run faster.

I quickly caught up to my sister. She couldn't get very far in a full length wedding gown. My sister's head whipped around at the sound of my feet crunching in the snow.

"Go away!" she screamed. She attempted to dash away, but I caught up to her with ease and grabbed her arm.

"Meg! What is going on here?" I said.

"Go away, I said!"

I spun her around and gasped. Her fingers clutched a dagger, dripping scarlet blood onto her cream-colored dress.

"Meg," I said softly. "What happened?" As a PI, I had discovered that women murderers would often confess to a crime, especially when killing someone they cared about, if spoken to in a gentle way.

"I-I don't know," she stammered. "I just walked in, and...there was blood."

For some reason, I found it hard to believe that she would kill someone, especially Walter Fenson, her finance. Don't get me wrong, I never liked the guy. But as far as I knew and observed, she loved him.

"Why did you take the dagger?" I asked.

"I couldn't...I couldn't bear to see him that way," she said, tears falling down her cheeks. "It wasn't right. He didn't deserve to be killed, especially by his friend."

I cocked my head. "His friend?"

"She's talking about me," a voice declared.

I whipped around, only to face a gun barrel pointed at my face. I looked up to see George, the supposed 'best man.'

"I had only been planning to dispose of one man today, but I can't keep any witnesses," he said.

"But why?" Meg wailed.

A sinister smile spread across George's lips. My eyes widened as he pulled a grey-striped tie from his pocket. "Didn't you hear? The grey-stripe killer broke out of prison last week."