EIGHTY-THREE

1.50 P.M.

There was something about Jared Truss that Stacey didn’t like.

She’d now watched a few of his videos and there was a hint of smug, self-importance behind the winning smile. He was good-looking and engaging with the camera, but there was a touch of arrogance, mixed with a hunger for validation. Always asking viewers to post comments on the video and to let him know how much they enjoyed watching.

His videos were a mixture of ghost-hunting adventures and puzzle-solving treks.

She only watched a couple of the ghost-hunting ones as they weren’t the ones that interested her, but even if she hadn’t known they were fake, she would have guessed.

One video took place at a top-secret location. Apparently, the owners who had granted him permission to investigate had done so only if he didn’t reveal where it was.

Allegedly, the property, in the East Midlands, had been the location of a brutal murder/suicide involving a teenage couple who had first cut the throats of the elderly occupants. The video claimed that there had been rumours that the young couple had performed dark magic rituals before killing the owners.

The video had been full of bangs, taps, dark energy and terrified screams from Jared, ending, as they all seemed to, with passionate exclamations that it had been the most terrifying night of his life.

The comments were filled with statements of total belief and acceptance of his claims, even though he’d found what looked like old chalk marks of a pentagram on the stone floor of the boot room.

Chalk, still visible after fifty years.

His viewers clearly had no access to Google or they’d have known that the incident had never happened, and the house was an Airbnb property that he’d rented for the night.

She understood that he was making entertainment, but there was something inherently dishonest about allowing his viewers and fans to be hoodwinked.

Only one person in the comments had questioned the story’s authenticity, and that guy had pretty much been run out of town as a pile on of loyal fans had ensued.

Far more interesting to her, though, were the treasure hunt escapades. She’d now watched a few, and each episode was formulaic throughout.

The first clue outlined what lay ahead and the time needed to solve it.

The second clue came twelve minutes in.

The third clue came twenty-four minutes in.

The fourth clue, which contained a wow moment, was thirty-six minutes in, and so on.

Some clues were riddles, others were anagrams and some were just words that made no sense.

Every one ran to the same formula, and it was one that she recognised. It was a similar pattern they’d been following for the last thirty-one hours.

She was pretty sure Jared Truss was their Jester.