Chapter 19
Marina makes another excuse not to join us for dinner.
I’m starting to think the woman survives on room service and avoidance, but I let it go because honestly, tonight I need the distraction of good food and even better company.
We hit the formal dining room at seven and proceed to eat our way through filet mignon with truffle butter, lobster tail that requires an engineering degree to crack open, and something the menu calls “pan-seared scallops with champagne cream sauce” that tastes like butter had a love affair with the ocean and this is their delicious offspring.
Dessert is chocolate lava cake—warm chocolate cake with a molten center that collapses into pure sin the moment your spoon breaks through—my personal favorite and the reason I need to buy bigger jeans when each cruise ends.
“I regret nothing,” Nettie announces, licking her spoon.
“You will tomorrow,” Bess says.
“Tomorrow is future Nettie’s problem.”
Bess laughs. “Future Nettie is going to send present Nettie a very strongly worded letter.”
“Eh.” Nettie shrugs. “She’s done it before and I simply return to sender.”
We make our way to the Emerald Theater for the evening show—something called Fantasy where circus meets Brothers Grimm in a quasi-nightmare with far too much sequins and existential angst. There’s singing, lots of it, mostly the soulful heartache variety where performers belt about lost love and impossible dreams. There are acrobatics that make my back hurt just watching.
Aerialists spin from silk ribbons as if gravity is more of a suggestion than a law.
A woman in a sparkling dress gets sawed in half, put back together, and doesn’t even mess up her hair.
Frankly, I’d like her stylist’s number.
And of course, there’s a happy ending. True love conquers all. The villain gets defeated. Everyone lives happily ever after. Such is life—I wish.
Which makes me wonder if we’ll get our own happy ending by the time this cruise concludes. If we’ll actually catch Gideon Vale’s killer or if they’ll sail away into the sunset with a perfect tan and zero consequences.
After the show, we hit the casino for a couple of hours because apparently we haven’t had enough sensory overload for one evening.
Bess and I break even at the slots, which feels like a win given our luck lately.
Ransom comes out ahead at the blackjack table because the man doesn’t lose at a single thing—the man could probably win at Go Fish through sheer intimidation.
I take that back. He’s lost his job, but I’d bet money he’ll get it right back again and with a raise.
Nettie loses her shirt at roulette.
Literally loses her shirt.
I’m not asking. You probably shouldn’t either.
Bess, however, asks. Bess always asks.
And five minutes later, she’s marching Nettie—now wearing some cocktail waitress’ backup apron and zero shame—out of the casino by the elbow while muttering something about common decency and a very specific circle of hell reserved for women who confuse a roulette table for a strip club.
“It wasn’t intentional,” Nettie protests.
“It never is with you,” Bess counters.
“The buttons were decorative.”
“Buttons are not decorative, Nettie.”
“Mine were.”
“Geez.”
It’s almost midnight when Tinsley intercepts the four of us on our way to the Blue Water Café, her eyes bright with the manic energy of a cruise director who’s had too much caffeine and not enough sleep but refuses to acknowledge either.
“Change of plans!” She’s practically pulsating. “You need to head to the Midnight Emerald Experience on the promenade deck. There’s an aurora borealis viewing and you’re all coming.”
“We were going to get food,” Nettie protests, fully clothed now, mind you.
“We have desserts on deck. And hot chocolate. And heated blankets.” Tinsley fixes us with a look that suggests refusal isn’t an option. “It’s the northern lights. You don’t say no to the northern lights.”
She’s not wrong.
The promenade deck smells like sea salt and hot chocolate and that particular brand of excitement that only nature’s greatest hits can generate.
Staff members in their crisp uniforms move through the crowd like fairies, distributing blankets that have been heated to the temperature of fresh laundry.
Lounge chairs are set up in neat rows, all facing north, and approximately a hundred passengers are already sprawled across them in various states of cozy bliss.
The deck is dark except for the running lights, the ocean black and endless in every direction. But the sky? Now that’s a different story.
The sky puts on a show that makes the theater production look like amateur hour.
“Oh my word,” I breathe, settling into a lounge chair with Ransom.
The aurora borealis ripples across the darkness like someone spilled liquid emerald and violet across black silk.
Ribbons of light shimmer and dance, pulsing with an otherworldly glow that makes you believe in magic even when you’ve seen too much to believe in much of anything anymore.
The colors shift—green to pink to purple to blue—swirling and twisting in celestial curtains caught in a cosmic breeze.
Around us, passengers gasp and point and actually scream with joy. A woman three chairs down starts crying. A man proposes to his girlfriend, who says yes through happy tears.
“That’s either beautiful or concerning,” Nettie whispers. “They’ve known each other since the Bermuda Triangle excursion this morning.”
“Nettie,” Bess laughs. “We’re not anywhere near the Bermuda Triangle.”
“I’m just saying, we should be. The aurora is doing a number on people’s decision-making.”
I wrap the heated blanket tighter around my shoulders and let myself just be here. In this moment. Watching the universe show off.
A staff member appears at my elbow with a tray of desserts—tiny chocolate mousse cups, miniature fruit tarts with glazed berries, and what appears to be profiteroles dusted with powdered sugar. I take one of each because I’m nothing if not thorough when it comes to caloric intake.
“This is romantic,” Nettie announces through a mouthful of mousse. “Very romantic. In a hypothermic kind of way.”
“It’s not that cold,” Bess says.
“My nose just fell off.”
“Your nose is fine.”
“How would you know? You can’t see in the dark.”
Bess grunts. “Nettie, if your nose had fallen off, I’d know. The scream alone would’ve rearranged the aurora.”
I nod because that sounds accurate.
Ransom shifts beside me, his warmth cutting through the chill. “Beautiful.”
“Beautiful lights,” I agree, watching another ripple of green cascade across the sky.
“Those, too.” He presses a kiss to my temple, and the cold air can’t touch me after that.
A staff member circulates with a tray of hot chocolate—the real kind, with whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top. I take one gratefully and let the heat seep into my frozen fingers.
I spot Wes making his way through the lounge chairs, stopping to chat with passengers, playing the perfect captain role even at midnight when he should probably be sleeping or preventing us from slicing through an iceberg.
He’s wearing his uniform jacket over what looks like jeans—off-duty casual—and he looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him in days.
He reaches our little cluster and nods at the sky. “Puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?”
“It sure makes murder seem especially petty,” I agree.
“That’s one way to look at it.” He glances around our group, his gaze sweeping past Bess and Nettie, landing on the empty chair beside me. “Where’s Marina?”
I bite back a smile because I happen to adore the way he’s fallen under her spell.
“I invited her to join us for dinner and the show,” I say. “But she wanted some alone time.”
Something moves across his face in the green-gold light of the aurora, and I can’t decide if it’s disappointment or concern, which under normal lighting would be two very different expressions but here, in the dark, look remarkably similar.
“Right. Of course.” He clears his throat. “Well, I have the day off tomorrow. I’m headed to the Blue Lagoon once we dock in Reykjavik. You’re all welcome to join me. My treat.”
Bess sits up so fast her blanket nearly slides off. “The Blue Lagoon? The actual Blue Lagoon?”
“The very one.” Wes’s smile returns. “Hot springs, spa treatments, the whole nine-heated yards. I figured we could all use some relaxation.”
“Things are about to get heated in the land of fire and ice,” Nettie announces, way too loudly.
Wes laughs. “So you’ll come?”
“Absolutely,” I say, already imagining myself floating in hot volcanic water while Iceland’s landscape does its dramatic thing around us. “We’re in.”
“I’m in for anything with the word lagoon in it,” Nettie says. “Lagoons equal men in swimming trunks and that’s something I can get behind.”
Ransom catches Wes’s eye and gives him a subtle nod—the kind of look men share when they’re asking questions without words.
Wes shakes his head. Just barely.
Ransom’s jaw tightens.
My heart drops somewhere around my shoes.
Wes was asking about Ransom’s reinstatement? And the answer was clearly no?
Not yet. Maybe not ever. My husband—brilliant, capable, dedicated Ransom, who lives for his job—is still persona non grata with corporate.
The northern lights continue their celestial dance overhead, beautiful and indifferent to all the human drama below.
Passengers ooh and ahh. Someone starts singing something romantic and off-key. The hot chocolate is perfect, the desserts are divine, and the moment should be magical.
But all I can think about is that Ransom belongs on the other side of this investigation and instead he’s sitting here watching the sky with me.
I squeeze his hand and he squeezes back—brief, tight, and what feels like grateful.
Wes excuses himself with a quiet, “See you tomorrow,” and drifts back into the crowd of passengers as he wishes them all a goodnight.
“He’s a good man,” Bess says softly, once Wes is out of earshot.
“He is,” I agree.
“Both of them are.” She nods toward Ransom.
“I know.”
And that, more than anything, is what’s eating me. Because catching a killer suddenly feels less about justice for Gideon Vale and more about getting Ransom back into the role that he was meant to be in.
The universe might be putting on a spectacular light show tonight.
But tomorrow we’re diving into hot springs and cold cases.
And I’m done letting killers enjoy the scenery while the best man I know sits on the sidelines.