Chapter 18
Ireach Silas just as he shifts his weight, still staring out at Iceland’s coastline like it holds answers he’s been searching for.
The trivia event is still in full swing in the lounge behind us, and believe me, I’m still very much interested in getting a few questions answered.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I keep my voice light and friendly.
I can hear the faint buzz of competitive enthusiasm and Tinsley’s voice over the microphone. But I’m done playing games. I’ve got questions that need answering, and Silas Rowen looks like a man who might finally crack if I ask them in just the right way.
He turns, and for half a second, I catch something raw in his expression before it smooths into polite surprise. “Trixie. Taking a break from trivia?”
“I couldn’t handle the pressure.” I lean against the window frame, keeping a comfortable distance between us. “Besides, I’m terrible at pop culture questions. My brain basically stops at 1990.”
He gives an amused smile. “Mine stops somewhere around 1985, so you’re way ahead of me.”
We share a quick laugh at the thought.
The observation lounge is empty except for us and the view from the windows is showcasing Iceland’s rugged cliffs and black sand beaches.
Afternoon light pours through the glass, sharpening everything and turning it silver.
The corridor is empty this time of day, that particular mid-afternoon quiet when most passengers are still at activities and the ship feels briefly like it belongs to no one.
Celeste shimmers in a shower of baby pink sparkles that would make a fairy godmother jealous.
I take a good look at her and gasp.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Elodie dressed her. I don’t see why not—she practically dresses me.
The ghost in question is wearing a different outfit now—some kind of fitted white dress that screams designer even in death, her platinum blonde hair styled in those perfect waves that look effortless but aren’t.
She’s stunning in that old-Hollywood way, all cheekbones and red lips and the kind of figure that made men beg for things on their knees.
And she happens to be looking at Silas like he’s a five-course meal and she hasn’t eaten in decades.
Which, technically, she hasn’t.
“Oh my,” Celeste purrs, circling him slowly. “Isn’t he just delicious. Look at those shoulders. And that salt-and-pepper hair situation? He’s devastating in all the right ways.”
I keep my expression neutral. Hard to do when a dead woman is practically drooling over your murder suspect.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Silas, ignoring Celeste’s commentary. “About the loss of your friend. This must be incredibly hard.”
Something flickers across his face. Grief, perhaps—or a good imitation of it.
“Gideon wasn’t exactly a friend. More of a professional acquaintance. But yes, it’s been difficult. Especially for Holland. She feels responsible somehow, even though she had nothing to do with what happened.”
“Of course she didn’t.” I watch him carefully. “Nobody thinks she did.”
“Good.” He turns back to the window and his reflection looks ghostly in the glass. “Because Holland wouldn’t hurt anyone. She’s the most genuine person I know. Everything she does comes from a place of wanting to help people transform their lives.”
Celeste zooms in close to the man. “Such conviction. Such passion. I do love a man who defends his woman.” She swoons and pretends to faint.
Ghosts can’t faint, can they?
Regardless, I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“The Second Act Society seems like an amazing program,” I tell him.
“It is.” Silas’s voice warms up when he says it. “Holland threw herself into it the moment we joined. That’s how she is. She can’t do anything halfway. Gideon built something real with this group and Holland just—she needed it to mean something, you know? Not just for us but for everyone in it.”
“Unlike Gideon?” I’m just taking a stab at it.
The question hangs there between us a moment too long.
Silas’s jaw tightens. “Gideon cared about his bottom line. About creating content that would go viral, get views, generate buzz. He didn’t care who got hurt in the process. At the end of the day, this was a business to him. It may not have started out like that, but it sure ended that way.”
“Sounds like you didn’t care for him much.” I might be pushing my luck with that one, but here’s hoping I’m lucky indeed.
“I didn’t trust him.” Silas turns to face me fully, and his expression is completely earnest. “Look, I don’t speak ill of the dead as a general rule.
But Gideon Vale made a career out of exposing people’s worst moments.
Dragging them back into the spotlight when they were trying to move forward.
He called it ‘truth-telling.’ I called it exploitation. ”
Celeste fans herself with all the drama a dead diva can afford. “Would you look at all this righteous anger. The protective husband energy. Be still, my non-beating heart.”
I do my best to tune her out. “Did he exploit someone you know?”
“He tried to.” Silas’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “Nicolette Devereaux. You know her, right? The lawyer from the Society?”
I nod. Nicolette with her designer wardrobe and sharp wit and carefully cultivated air of sophistication. I really do like her.
“Gideon was planning to do a whole segment on her.” Silas’s voice drops, as though he’s afraid someone else might be listening in. Little does he know. “He was focusing on her past. Things she’d worked hard to leave behind. Things that had nothing to do with who she is now.”
“What kind of things?”
“I don’t know all the details. But I saw them arguing the night he died. She was furious. She threatened him, actually.” He pauses, letting that sink in. “I probably should have told security, but I didn’t want to get her in trouble. She’s been through enough.”
“That must have been hard to witness,” I say.
“It was.” Silas pulls out his phone. “Actually, I took a photo. Not of them arguing—I’m not that invasive. But I wanted to document the event for Holland’s social media account and they happened to be in the background. Let me show you.”
He swipes through his photos, and before he gets to the pictures of that night, the screen fills with an image that makes my chest tight.
It’s a sweet little boy. He looks to be maybe three years old with dark hair, dark eyes, and he’s holding a basketball almost as big as he is. He’s grinning at the camera with the pure joy only toddlers can manage, and his whole face lit up with happiness.
“Oh my goodness, he’s adorable.” The words come out softer than I intended. “Is he yours?”
Silas laughs and there’s a genuine surprise in the sound of it. “Wow, no. No, he’s actually my nephew. Griffin. He lives with my sister in Portland. The kid is obsessed with basketball—or at least holding the ball.”
Celeste drifts closer, peering at the screen. “He adores that child. Look at how his whole face changes when he talks about him.”
There’s a note of longing in his voice and as a mother, I can relate to that.
“Holland and I have two grown children,” he says with a wistful shake of his head. “They grow so fast.”
“That they do, and I guess we have that in common. I have two grown children as well. Isn’t it great?” I give a light laugh. “I mean, we’re past the hard part—the diapers, the sleepless nights, the constant busy schedule of a child in the day and age where academic competition starts at birth.”
He makes a face, and for a second, I think he looks queasy.
Silas swipes to the next photo, and everything stops.
It’s Nicolette. In the Meridian Lounge. The night of the bon voyage party. She’s facing Gideon Vale, and her hand is mid-swing, connecting with his face in a slap hard enough to leave a mark.
The image is sharp, clear, and most certainly damning.
“Wow,” I muse, mostly to myself.
Gideon’s head is turned from the impact, his expression shocked. Nicolette’s face is twisted with fury. The timestamp reads 9:47 p.m.
“That’s from that night,” Silas says quietly. “I was taking photos of the party for Holland’s social media, and I caught this completely by accident. I didn’t even realize I had it until the next morning when I was sorting through images.”
I stare at the photo. Nicolette. Elegant, composed Nicolette. Slapping Gideon Vale right into tomorrow. But did she send him into the afterlife, too?
“Did you show this to anyone?” I can’t quite look away from the screen.
“No.” Silas shoves his phone back into his pocket. “Like I said, I didn’t want to get her in trouble. But between you and me? I think security should know. If they’re looking for someone who had a motive and an opportunity—”
He trails off, letting me fill in the blanks.
An air horn blasts through the ship’s speakers—Tinsley’s signature way of announcing trivia results. She’s about as subtle as Nettie when it comes to doing anything. Heaven help us when they decide to team up.
Silas glances toward the sound. “I should get back. Holland will wonder where I went.”
“Of course.” I step aside to let him pass.
He pauses. “Can I ask you something? As someone who’s been on this ship a long time?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“Do you think security knows what they’re doing? With the investigation, I mean.” His concern looks genuine and it feels genuine, too. “Because if they’re focused on the wrong person while the real killer is just… walking around…”
“I think they’re being thorough,” I say, avoiding the fact that the security team is currently operating without their leader and chief. But on the upside, they’ve still got me.
“Good. That’s good.” He offers a small smile. “I just want this solved. For Gideon’s sake. So we can move forward with the Society without this cloud hanging over everything he’s built.”
He walks away with a nod, his footsteps quiet on the plush carpet, leaving me alone with a ghost and the memory of a photograph that proves Nicolette Devereaux had every reason to want Gideon Vale dead.
Celeste watches him go and her expression is thoughtful for once. There’s not an ounce of flirtation, no theatrical sighing over his shoulders either.
“So,” I say quietly. “Is that our killer? You do claim to know exactly who it is.”
She turns to me with a smile that would make the Cheshire Cat jealous. “That’s for me to know and you to find out when I’m good and ready to share it with you, honey buns.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m dead. Everything is possible for me.” She’s already fading into hot pink sparkles. “Though I will say this—watch what people show you versus what they hide. The truth is usually in the gap between the two.”
And she’s gone.
I stand alone with the ocean view, the image of Nicolette’s hand connecting with Gideon’s face burned into my memory, and wondering if Silas Rowen just gift-wrapped Nicolette for me and tied the bow himself.
Catching a killer is hard enough without a ghost holding the answer hostage and a dead man who spent his life holding everyone else’s secrets hostage too—and somewhere in the gap between the two is the truth I need.