Chapter 23
Breaking into Ricky’s room was easy.
“Why are we breaking into Ricky’s room now?”
And a bit to my pride, I notice Nash sounds a little winded from chasing me.
I cautiously step inside. Flip on the lights.
Part of me expected some random concrete gargoyle sitting on the desk.
Or a laser beam setting off sirens, letting him know we’re here.
Or something in general to ease his ever-suspicious mind. But no, nothing.
The room is tidy, stacks of books neatly kept to one corner. A closed laptop on the desk. A neat row of fully sharpened pencils
beside a notepad.
And, oh, there it is, a knife.
I throw my head back. “Yesssss.”
The relief is . . . well, let’s just say I have never been more relieved in my life.
“Ah. Here it is,” I say, stepping to it. “How thoughtful of him to keep it out for me.”
“What?” Nash says, confused. “Another one?”
I pick up the knife and flip it over. Dried red stains streak across the stainless-steel shaft and dark handle. I bring it
closer to my face.
If I’m not mistaken, this one’s a little bigger than the others. And where is the cloth?
I look around Ricky’s desk. Check the floor. The drawers.
I find it neatly folded into a red-stained square beside the remote. Naturally.
“It’s one of them, yes,” I say, setting the knife back where I found it.
“And you were expecting there to be more?”
“One in every room, to be precise.”
Ah. And here comes the rage.
Relief is giving way, sure enough, to a level of anger I’m not sure I’ve quite experienced before. Relief-rage. It’s a thing,
a new thing, quite possibly, at least for me, and my fingers seem to be bursting with power as I swing back the door to Ricky’s
room and begin my charge down the hall.
“Want to do a job for me, Nash?” I call over my shoulder.
For once he’s struggling to keep up.
He’s scratching his head. “Sure. What?”
“Break into Neena’s room while I’m gone. Let me know when you have confirmation you found the knife in her room too. Gordon’s
too, if you can. It’ll be good for you. Practice your cat burglary skills.”
“Where are you going? I’ll come—”
I halt. Swivel round with my hand raised. “With all due respect, I’m in love with you, Nash.”
He frowns. Crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Thank . . . you?”
“And I’d like you to stay in love with me.”
“I don’t think . . . you know how it works—”
“And right now, I’m about to put some hurting on somebody. And it won’t be pretty. And it may get violent. And before you
find me terrifying—”
Nash purses his lips. “You already are a little. Right now.”
“I’m going to keep this happy dreamy daze going a little bit longer.” I motion between the two of us. “Let’s just keep this
cotton candy vibe going for as long as we can.”
“This relationship started in the middle of a murder investigation. So . . .”
“Well, the investigation ends now.”
“I can’t let you put yourself in danger.”
I laugh. One of those very forceful, I’m seriously going to get somebody as soon as I leave here laughs. Maybe that type of laugh didn’t exist in the world before this moment, but it sure does now. “Oh, believe me. The
last person you need to be worrying about right now is me. And you’re just going to have to trust me.” I purse my lips, knowing
full well that the next words that come out of my mouth will seal the deal. “Just like I trust you.”
He raises a finger. “Now, that’s not fair.”
I smile. Smile like someone who has won. “Sure it is.”
Nash frowns at me for some time, his lips pursed beneath that beard of his.
I stare him down right back.
Eventually he drops his head, his hat bowing to the ground as he waves a hand. “Fine. I’ll call you when I finagle the lock
and get into this next room. But I’m more accustomed to doing legal things.”
“You’ll be a natural, I’m sure of it.”
I wheel around and race down the hall, hit my finger to the down button on the elevator, and step inside.
My heart is racing.
My chest is pounding.
Relief-rage.
It’s a most fitting term.
And that relief-rage fills my senses and propels me forward with enough power that I don’t even hesitate until I’ve stepped
off the elevator to The Hole (terrible name), charged past the piano bar, and I’m two more shops down the hall.
I’m good mentally until I look back, and the exit (i.e., elevator) is so far away it’s blocked by people.
You’re fine.
You can do it.
I take a breath, trying not to focus on the zigzag pattern of the carpet or the growing noise.
Things are more neon down here, less antique gold and more glow, less the glissando of the harpist and more the loud speakers
of the dance floor. It’s darker, louder, and, overarchingly, far less charmed.
I hate it.
The growing tension gnaws at my stomach—the fight-or-flight reaction building for me suddenly to bowl people over and get
out.
I urge myself on.
It’s the worst of dreams, the kind where your feet feel like lead as you drag yourself forward. This is me inching forward
while oblivious shoppers breeze by with their bags and takeaways.
At last, and with great mental endurance and emotional sacrifice, I stand beneath the large and glorious script of the last
and final room: The Blue Lagoon Lounge.
“Hi, may I help you?” a host vaguely says to my left.
I don’t look at him.
I don’t have the capability, quite honestly, to look.
I’m zeroed in on my goal and, without wavering left or right, take steps toward the end in sight.
Everything around me is basked in an ethereal blue. It looks like we’re in a shell, a white shell, with ribs of white sweeping
this way and that without true purpose or order. Dozens of white tables and white chairs pop around the room; everything is
white or a glowy blue. The place is packed. It looks like this is the hottest commodity on the ship.
Onstage somebody sings karaoke, following glowy blue words in a pitchy tune. I make the mistake of looking left and nearly
fall to my knees.
A dozen booths line the left side of the wall, each featuring a massive oval-shaped glowing porthole. Each porthole looks
straight into ocean just on the other side of the glass. They’ve actually put lights underwater for people to see.
People to see straight out into the deep, dark ocean with just a few layers of glass between us.
I’m going to throw up.
You can do this, Pip.
You have gotten over Michael.
You have braved the past few days.
You are braver than you once thought.
You are smarter than you realized.
You are worthier than you have been led to believe.
You can do anything you set your mind to.
YOU JUST HAVE TO HOLD ON A LITTLE LONGER.
It takes several seconds, but I manage a step forward.
And another.
And another.
My eyes begin to rove around.
I’ve caught the attention of the host, who comes up beside me. “Are you sure I can’t help you with something? Do you see what you’re looking for?”
The host prattles on, but I stop him when my eyes come upon it, and forcing myself forward ten more steps, I reach the piano.
I pick up the envelope gingerly.
Break the well-known seal.
Read the text in Hugh’s infamously known scrawl.
Bravo, Pip.
I knew you would do it.
You will find me, and end the game, when you give me what I want.
Tell our story.