In my world, too, I agree while nodding at the disembodied entity in our midst.
I catch Val eyeing me with suspicion, and I clear my throat. “Val, who do you think might have wanted to harm Madison?”
Val’s laugh sounds like wind chimes made of ice and venom. “Honey, the list is longer than the credits on Santino’s show. You should talk to her husband Victor Darkmore fromThe Bitter and the Beautiful.” She leans my way. “Or should I say Dirk Rothschild in real life, though I doubt anyone remembers his actual name anymore.”
“I remember his name,” Marlie says bitterly. “And his birthday, and his favorite breakfast, and how he likes his?—”
“Is there anyone specific you’d suggest we look into?” Ransom interrupts, mercifully cutting off what I suspect was going to be overly detailed information about Victor Darkmore’s private preferences.
“Oh, believe me, Beth Williams is hiding something behind those crocodile tears,” Val says, lowering her voice. “And Harper? That woman calculates every move like she’s drafting a battle plan. But honestly?” She glances around, making sure no one else is within earshot. “You should look at the fans.”
“The fans?” I repeat.
“Absolutely. The producers let all these crazed soap fanatics onto the ship. Lord knows everyone wanted to be the next Mrs. Victor Darkmore.” She shoots a glance in the general direction of where Marlie is floating. “I mean, look at poor Victoria Darkmore. Someone took her out, and Madison stepped right into her designer shoes.”
“Took me out? I fell off a balcony!” Marlie cries out. “And then a chandelieraccidentallyfell on me during filming! And that’s when my so-called understudy was comforting my husband before my fictional body was cold—and my actual body wasn’t much warmer!”
I’m struggling not to react to Marlie’s outburst when a commotion erupts a few yards away near the cliff’s edge. Apparently, Nettie, in her infinite wisdom, has decided that the perfect photo opportunity involves standing on one foot at the very brink of the daredevil drop while Bess snaps pictures as if her bestie’s life depends on it. And it just might.
“Nettie!” I cry out in horror.
“Is she trying to join me in the afterlife?” Marlie asks, just as horrified.
Ransom growls at the sight. “Excuse me,” he says, before sprinting toward the precarious scene because rescuing people from their own bad ideas just so happens to be his specialty.
Val’s eyes light up at the potential drama. “Oh my! What a perfect moment for my Insta Pictures account!” She pulls out her phone. “Please excuse me, Trixie. Social media waits for no one. If I catch this woman plunging to her death, I might go viral.”
She clicks toward the commotion in her designer heels, already framing the shot with her phone.
Marlie begins to fade as her form becomes all the more translucent, and I instinctively reach out in an attempt to grab her by her ghostly arm.
“Not so fast, Soap Queen,” I hiss. “You’re not going anywhere. I may have questioned Val within an inch of her rhinestone-studded heels, but you’re next on my list.”
In the game ofAll My Enemies,The Young and the Deadnever rest in peace.
CHAPTER 9
The Norwegian sky has decided to add dramatic tension to our little reality TV production by rolling in clouds the exact color of a deep purple bruise. The icy wind picks up, whipping across Pulpit Rock hard enough to send scarves flying and trophy wives into hair-related panic.
Meanwhile, Nettie’s ill-advised photo stunt has transformed into an impromptu soap opera crossover episode. No fewer than four daytime drama heartthrobs have rushed to her rescue, each one apparently convinced that his character’s fictional emergency training translates to real-world cliffside heroics. Nettie has latched onto a tree whose branches hover over the edge of oblivion, and I’m so terrified for her, I can hardly stand to look.
“Get back!” bellows Bridge Blackthorne, waving his arms with the gravitas of a man who once performed CPR on his evil twin while dangling from a helicopter. Side-bar, I LOVED that episode. “I’ve got this under control!”
“You’ve gotnothingunder control,” Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. counters, shouldering his way forward. “I’ve been a fictionaldoctor for forty-five years. I’ve practically earned an honorary medical degree!”
A part of me agrees with him.
Santino DiAngelo gestures dramatically toward Nettie, who is now milking her predicament with Oscar-worthy commitment.
Santino leans her way. “This reminds me of the time I rescued the princess of Montedoro from the castle battlements during that lightning storm in season twenty-six!”
The newest addition to our soap hunk collection, Ryker Stone, simply tears off his shirt—revealing abs that appear to have been carved by Renaissance sculptors—and uses it to create some kind of rescue rope that makes absolutely no practical sense but looks fantastic on camera.
Boomer is dancing with glee, ordering camera operators to capture every angle of this unscripted gold mine. The trophy wives hover at strategic distances, each one trying to look concerned while ensuring they remain within frame with perfect lighting. They truly are pros.
But it’s Ransom who’s about to pull her to safety, and yet Nettie hisses at him to get lost, and adds a few light threats to go with it.
While everyone else is distracted by the Nettie rescue spectacle, I seize the opportunity to continue my conversation with my favorite specter of all time, Marlie Rothschild. She’s drifted over to the craft services table, eyeing the spread with the wistful expression of an apparition who hasn’t eaten in fifteen years—because, well, she hasn’t.
