Chapter 23 #2
“The human form is a temple of energy,” Rob adds with cosmic confidence as his gaze settles on me with uncomfortable intensity. “I can sense incredible tension in your aura—you’re carrying the weight of unresolved conflicts in your chakra system.”
Ransom taps his weapon with his elbow as if checking to see if it’s still hiding out beneath his suit jacket.
“My chakras are fine, thanks,” I reply firmly, shutting down his unwanted therapeutic advances.
But Rob has apparently decided I’m his evening project. “Please, let me show you our meditation space. The balcony has incredible ocean energy for cleansing blocked pathways.”
Before I can protest, he’s guiding me toward the suite’s sliding doors like he’s on a mission from the universe itself, while Jazz smoothly intercepts Ransom with the efficiency of a well-orchestrated military operation.
“Come meet some of our more experienced community members,” she tells my husband, steering him toward a group of women who immediately swarm him like designer-dressed vultures who’ve spotted particularly attractive prey.
“They’re always eager to share their insights about expanded relationship dynamics. ”
“Trixie—” Ransom calls out, but his voice is quickly drowned by female laughter that sounds less like conversation and more like hunting calls from predators who’ve cornered their preferred meal.
The balcony hits me with cool ocean air that feels like salvation after the overheated atmosphere inside, though the trade-off is being alone with Rob and his cosmic agenda and possibly his entire collection of hemp-based philosophical theories.
Meanwhile, Ransom is inside being attacked by who knows who and their boobs.
“The sea holds such cleansing energy,” he says, settling into the lotus position like we’re about to conduct a séance instead of having a conversation about murder and adultery. “Perfect for releasing the barriers society has constructed around authentic connection.”
“Right,” I reply, keeping one eye on the sliding doors in case I need to make a tactical retreat. “About those barriers—you mentioned Mark Sterling was exploring alternatives?”
Rob’s Zen smile widens as if I’ve just asked about his favorite spiritual practice. “Mark was a beautiful example of someone transcending conventional limitations. He and Lavender shared such a profound connection—their energy work sessions were absolutely transformative.”
My detective brain starts doing victory laps around the meditation cushions.
“Energy work sessions?” I probe, trying to sound casually curious instead of professionally fascinated.
“Their affair transcended traditional boundaries,” Rob continues casually, like he’s discussing a grocery list instead of relationship-destroying infidelity.
“The universe brought them together for karmic healing—but sadly, Claudette’s rigid programming prevented her from embracing the gift they were offering. ”
Holy mother of marital meltdowns and cosmic justifications for adultery. Mark Sterling didn’t just dabble in the lifestyle—he had a full-blown affair with Lavender Voss, the woman his wife just publicly threatened to murder using language that would make sailors blush.
“That must have been difficult for everyone involved,” I manage, mentally updating my suspect list with the efficiency of a woman whose hobby is accidentally solving homicides.
“Claudette’s discovery was... let’s just say it was explosive,” Rob says as an understatement, sort of like describing nuclear warfare as a minor disagreement. “She found out about Mark and Lavender not too long before booking this cruise. Talk about cosmic timing, right?”
The pieces of this murder puzzle are rearranging themselves in my brain like furniture in an earthquake. Claudette didn’t just have professional reasons to want Lavender dead—she had deeply personal, marriage-destroying, career-threatening reasons.
A shriek from inside the suite cuts through Rob’s cosmic revelations like a chainsaw through silk.
“Your wife is so lucky,” one woman cries. “You have such strong masculine energy!” comes a chorus of female voices that sound less like compliments and more like battle cries from an army of women who’ve declared war on conventional marriage boundaries.
I peer through the sliding doors to see Ransom surrounded by approximately five women who appear to be conducting a hands-on seminar about the benefits of alternative relationship structures.
My husband looks like a deer caught in headlights—headlights that are operated by predators with excellent manicures and questionable boundaries, and possibly advanced degrees in husband-hunting.
“Excuse me,” I say, abandoning Rob’s energy work session with the speed of a wife whose marriage is under siege and quicker than you can say divorce lawyer, “but that’s MY therapeutic polyamory experiment, and he’s not available for community sharing.”
I hope that made sense, but I’m too livid to care.
I charge through the sliding doors on a rescue mission, dodging couples engaged in activities that would require awkward explanations to conventional relatives.
“Ladies,” I declare, wedging myself between Ransom and his enthusiastic admirers as if reclaiming stolen property from a pack of well-dressed wolves.
“I appreciate your interest in my husband’s masculine energy, but I just spoke to Rob and we need to consult our auras before making any major chakra decisions. ”
Okay, so that was a blatant lie. But honestly? He was probably one questionably lucid breath from suggesting it.
“Thank you,” Ransom breathes, grabbing my hand and pulling me close like we’re making a prison break.
We bolt for the door faster than tourists fleeing a time-share presentation, leaving behind the sounds of cosmic disappointment and therapeutic music that will probably haunt my dreams for years.
“I need a shower,” Ransom announces as we escape into the corridor, both of us panting like survivors of a particularly intense contact sport. “Several showers. And possibly therapy. The conventional kind. With licensed professionals who keep their clothes on.”
“It’s a shame about the clothes staying on, though,” I say with a wicked grin. “I have some boundaries I wouldn’t mind exploring—with you.”
“You did hear the bit about the shower.” His lips twitch with the hint of a naughty grin. “I hereby extend a formal invite.”
“Accepted. Should we shake on it or skip straight to the clause about removing clothing?”
“In a moment.” That frown returns. “What did you learn from the Zen master?” he asks as we put distance between ourselves and the suite that’s forever changed our understanding of cruise ship entertainment options.
“Mark Sterling had a full affair with Lavender Voss,” I tell him. “Claudette found out not too long before booking this cruise.”
Ransom’s brows hike at the revelation.
“So, our primary suspect didn’t just have professional reasons to want Lavender dead,” Ransom says slowly as his security training overrides his recent therapeutic trauma. “She had personal, marriage-destroying, career-threatening reasons.”
“The traditional marriage counselor was living a lie,” I agree, mentally cataloging how this revelation changes everything about our case. “Her entire career is built on values her own husband was violating—with the victim.”
We walk in contemplative silence as the ship’s Valentine’s decorations suddenly seem less romantic and more like evidence of how badly love can go wrong when secrets and lies replace honest communication.
But as we approach our cabin, one thought crystallizes with terrifying clarity.
If Claudette Sterling killed Lavender Voss to protect her marriage and career, she’s got nothing left to lose—and that makes her more dangerous than any swinger wielding therapeutic massage oil and cosmic justifications for adultery.