Page 117 of Without a Clue

The fact that the members of this “Magnificent Seven” have all shown their true colors, their lack of devastation, their willingness to so easily move on, and their sole concern for themselves just shows that they aren’t so “magnificent” after all. They’re just writers—some of them, at least—who happened to cling to the coattails of someone famous and used him until he was all used up.

This time it’s Oliver who doesn’t speak, and after a long enough wait, I rub my brow. “You know, Oliver, I think I will take that espresso after all. Double or triple. Surprise me.”

Oliver’s brow immediately smooths now that he’s tasked with something far more manageable than solving life crises, and with a bow, he glides out of view.

I take a breath.

Sit back in my chair.

Fight a rising headache.

And looking left then right, behind and in front, I lift my legs up and tuck my feet under me, forming a little wall with my knees between me and everyone else. Quietly, I slip out the letter from my blazer.

I hesitate for a blink, momentarily consider bringing this straight to Pogache, and then carefully break the seal on the envelope.

I rub the thick ivory cardstock between my fingers and recognize it immediately as Hugh’s. Not counterfeit.

The page is mostly blank.

For a man who made his career with words, he was always good at getting directly to the point:

If you’re reading this, it’s over for me.

Don’t overlook the one who looks most innocent of all.

Nash Eyre

“Madam.”

A voice behind me makes me scream.

I look up, clutching the letter to my chest.

It’s Oliver, bowing deeply and looking entirely apologetic for startling me. “My biggest apologies,” he says through at least another two bows. “I just wanted to inquire about your preferences. We have a quality dark, nutty Peruvian and a bold Costa Rican.”

At least two more bows follow.

What is he asking?

“The Peruvian,” I say quickly.

“Excellent choice. Tremendous. Excellent.”

Three more bows, and he whisks himself away.

I look around. No Nash in sight.

Crystal is on her way through another loop around the ship.

Gordon’s probably off at the movie theater.

Ricky’s downstairs. I feel a chill run up my spine, remembering Ricky’s freak appearance in the wingback chair, and add to myself, I mean, of course he is. Vampires can’t come up to the main decks during the day.

Neena looks as unhinged and cheery as ever. But Jackie?

Jackie’s eyes are like slits watching me above her cards.

Our eyes catch and hers drop down.