“That’s right.” Jazz bleeds a black smile. “I knew exactly what would trigger a fatal episode,” she admits with clinical detachment, as if discussing a successful experiment. And she is. “The beauty of it was that it would look completely natural—a stressed woman with a heart condition having a cardiac event during an emotionally charged confrontation.”
“Except it wasn’t natural,” I point out. “It was calculated murder using your medical expertise to commit what you were hoping would be the perfect crime.”
“It wasn’t until you showed up.” Jazz’s expression shifts from pride to something approaching desperation as she realizes how much she’s just revealed. It’s funny what a little night magic and roaring waves could do to a person. “You can’t prove any of this. It’s all speculation and circumstantial evidence. I’m a doctor. They’ll believe my word over yours.”
“Actually, I think I can prove quite a bit,” I say, after all I’ve just witnessed a full confession. “Starting with your admission that you orchestrated this entire cruise scenario specifically to murder Dr. Lavender Voss.”
“Yes, I killed her!” Jazz screams with the fury of a woman who’s finally tired of pretending to be the victim. “She deserved to die for what she took from me! Years of my life, my research, my career—she was going to destroy everything I’d worked for!”
“So you destroyed her instead?”
“She ruined my career, stolemylife’s work,” Jazz continues with the desperate justification of someone who’s convinced herself thatmurder was reasonable. “Not the other way around, Trixie. I had every right to take back what was mine!”
Her eyes dart past me for a moment, and her rage is replaced with a far more desperate expression as she realizes she’s all but trapped on a balcony with the one person who can destroy her carefully constructed new life.
“You know too much,” she says with a cold calculation that lets me know she’s already committed one murder and apparently isn’t opposed to making it two.
Before I can react, Jazz lunges toward me with a desperate strength that says she’s got nothing left to lose. Her arms latch around my waist with surprising force—I guess psychiatric training apparently includes learning how to physically overpower people—and hoists me up like I’m a sack of evidence she needs to dispose of.
“Jazz, no!” I gasp as she lifts me toward the railing, her grip tightening with determination, because evidently, she’s decided murder is preferable to prison.
She hurls me over the balcony’s edge with enough force to send me plunging toward the churning Atlantic below. For a terrifying moment, I’m falling through the night air, the dark ocean rushing up to meet me—untilTHWAP!
My ridiculous stiletto heel—the one I was silently cursing Elodie for choosing—catches on the ornate corner of the railing with a metallic screech that sounds like salvation.
A shrill scream escapes me as I dangle there like a very fashionable pendulum, suspended between the balcony outside the ballroom and a very cold, very final swim, while Jazz stares down at me with the expression that suggests her perfect murder plan has just been foiled by designer footwear and maritime architecture.
“Well,” I manage, hanging upside down like a bat in evening wear. “I guess there’s a first time for everything when it comes to appreciating Elodie’s shoe choices.”
“For a second there, I thought I might be escorting you to the heavenlies,” Richard appears beside me with ghostly concern, even though his ethereal form can’t exactly offer physical assistance.
“There’s still a chance,” I say, trying my best to reach for the railing but I can’t seem to muster the strength. “Help!” I shout with all my might, my voice barely carrying over the music and party noise. “This is definitely not how I planned to end Valentine’s Day—or my life!”
“FREEZE!” Ransom’s voice cuts through the ocean air like a security officer’s battle cry, followed by “TRIXIE?” bellowed twice as loud with the kind of panic that suggests my husband has just heard his wife scream in mortal peril but has no idea where she might be.
“Right here!” I squeak, using all my might to maintain my precarious grip on life while these four-inch-high wonders prove surprisingly useful for preventing death by ocean. I swear if I make it out of here alive, I’m never going to argue with Elodie’s fashion choices again.
Both Quinn’s and Ransom’s faces appear from over the railing as they glance down at me with horror. Ranson lets a few expletives fly as he quickly pulls me to safety with the kind of desperate strength that suggests he’s never letting me investigate anything more dangerous than the dessert menu ever again. He pulls me close and embraces me hard enough to make my ribs protest, but not nearly hard enough to express how grateful I am to be alive.
From over his shoulder, I watch as Quinn chases Jazz into a corner and handcuffs her.
“You’ll regret this,” Jazz shouts over at me with a bitterness that lets us know she’s finally given up all pretense of sanity. “I hope you’re happy!” she screams as Quinn escorts her toward the door. “You ruined my life, and I was theinnocentone! She stole from me! Lavender deserved what she got, and I would do it all over again! You’ll pay for this. You’llallpay!”
Richard rises into the sky like a supernatural sunset, his ghostly form beginning to fade as his earthly mission reaches its completion. “It seems my time is through,” he calls out with peaceful satisfaction. “Take care, Trixie. And tell Nettie we’ll meet again—sooner than later!”
I suck in a quick breath at the implications of his final message.
“Are you okay?” Ransom asks, brushing the hair out of my eyes with gentle precision, clearly still processing that his wife nearly became fish food.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, and I mean it despite my recent aerial adventure. “She confessed to everything. Jazz killed Lavender to steal her research and frame Claudette for the murder.”
Ransom pulls me closer with possessive relief. I’m pretty sure he’s glad tonight didn’t end in widowhood.
“Happy Valentine’s Day to the most beautiful woman in the world,” he murmurs against my hair. “How about next year we celebrate somewhere that doesn’t involve dangling over the ocean in stilettos?”
“Deal.” I laugh with slightly hysterical relief. After all, I just solved a murder case and survived an attempted homicide in the same evening. “Happy Valentine’s Day to the most romantic husband in all of maritime law enforcement.”
Ransom and I indulge in a steamy kiss with the passion of people who’ve just remembered that life is short, love is precious, and sometimes the most dangerous thing about a Valentine’s cruise isn’t the chocolate fountain—it’s whoever decided murder pairs well with romance.
