“About why someone might kill to keep their secrets buried,” I say, finally understanding that the most dangerous murderers aren’t the ones driven by passion. They’re the ones driven by the desperate need to protect everything they’ve built on lies.
When your entire livelihood depends on being someone you’re not, murder isn’t just an option—it’s a prudent business decision.
CHAPTER 18
“Well, this is what our friendship has come to,” I announce to Nettie as we approach the entrance to the Hocus Pocus Lounge back on theEmerald Queen of the Seas, where promises of magical entertainment await passengers who’ve apparently run out of better ways to spend their evening.
It’s just hours after we kissed the Blarney Stone, and Bess is still MIA.
I shrug over at Nettie. “I guess we’re left watching someone pull rabbits out of hats while our third musketeer gallivants around with a silver fox who probably has three passports and a lawyer on speed dial.”
It could be true. We don’t really know the guy.
“At least rabbits are predictable,” Nettie replies, adjusting her rhinestone-encrusted sweater that readsMAGIC HAPPENSin letters that practically glow in the dark. “Unlike certain octogenarians who’ve decided that mysterious older men are more interesting than us.”
The corridor outside the Hocus Pocus Lounge pulses with the kind of manic energy that only happens when you trap several hundred people on a floating entertainment complex and give them unlimited access to cocktails with tiny paper umbrellas.
The scent of buttered popcorn mingles with whatever expensive cologne the gentleman ahead of us apparently bathed in, while thedistant sound of slot machines provides a casino soundtrack to our evening’s entertainment choices. Valentine’s decorations drape the walls like romantic crime scene tape, and heart-shaped balloons bob against the ceiling with the persistence of Cupid’s surveillance system.
Bess missed dinner with Ransom, Nettie, and me because she apparently had more pressing romantic obligations involving pilots who look like they know their way around both adventure and a lady’s heart.
After dinner, Ransom got called away to handle some commotion in the casino—probably passengers who think international waters mean international immunity from basic mathematics—so Nettie and I decided that entertainment involving disappearing acts might be appropriate, given our current friendship dynamics.
“I still can’t believe she ditched us for Rim of the World,” I mutter, scanning the crowd for signs of our wayward friend. “That restaurant has a wait list that requires a blood sacrifice and three references.”
“Money talks,” Nettie grunts as if she’s witnessed enough romantic foolishness to qualify as hazard pay. “And apparently, Rex speaks fluent currency.”
We’re about to step into the lounge when we literally collide with the object of our concerned discussion.
“Bess!” I practically shout as she materializes in front of us like a perfectly dressed ghost, looking absolutely radiant in a way that suggests she’s been dining on more than just expensive cuisine.
I can’t help but notice she’s dressed up more than usual in a midnight blue cocktail dress that I’ve never seen on her before, paired with jewelry that catches the corridor’s lighting like scattered stars. Her red hair is perfectly coiffed, her makeup is flawless, and she’s practically glowing with the kind of satisfaction that usually requires either excellent room service or excellent company.
Ugh. What exactly is going on here?
Double ugh, because I think I know.
“Girls!” she beams, though there’s something almost dreamy about her expression, as if she’s been hypnotized by romantic possibilities, premium wine pairings, and the kind of male attention thatmakes rational women make irrational decisions. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be somewhere more age-appropriate, like bingo or complaining about the music being too loud?” She belts out a loud guffaw, but Nettie and I aren’t laughing.
“Watching magic tricks,” Nettie replies dryly. “Though apparently, the real magic is happening elsewhere on this ship.”
Bess’s cheeks turn approximately the same shade as the Valentine’s decorations, which, on an eighty-year-old woman, should look alarming but somehow just makes her look more radiant.
“We had dinner at Rim of the World,” she sighs with the kind of contentment usually reserved for religious experiences or really excellent chocolate—or really hot dates with a sizzling senior. “The view was absolutely breathtaking. You can see the entire ocean stretching out like liquid diamonds. The food was incredible. They had this lobster bisque that was practically creamy heaven, and the filet mignon just melted in your mouth like butter made of happiness.”
“Butter made of happiness?” Nettie grunts with a frown.
Bess pauses, her eyes getting that faraway look that suggests she’s mentally replaying every moment of the evening like a romantic movie on repeat.
“Rex was the perfect gentleman,” she continues, and I swear she’s practically floating. “He pulled out my chair, remembered how I like my wine, and told the most fascinating stories about his flying adventures. Everything was just...magical. Like a fairy tale, but with better food and legal alcohol consumption.”
I exchange a glance with Nettie that could communicate entire dissertations on the subject of our friend’s rapidly deteriorating common sense.
“And how are things going with Rex?” I ask while trying to calculate the odds of our trio surviving this romantic invasion.
“You seem really happy,” Nettie adds, though there’s something almost cautious in her tone, like someone approaching a potential explosive device disguised as contentment and wrapped in expensive jewelry.
“Oh, please.” Bess is quick to wave us off with thekind of denial that fools absolutely no one. “It’s not that serious. We’re just having fun. I mean, at my age, what else is there?”
