Page 137 of Without a Clue

I’ve never seen Nash this enraged before.

Actually, I’ve never seen him angry at all.

Nash and I are back in the room, the poor room that has been torn to shreds in my haste to try to make sense of this horrible case of murder of my boss and one of my dearest friends. A visual example of the chaos my life has been the past nine days.

For my boss and one of my dearest friends.

Yup. I am. I am going to kill him.

Nash has been pacing back and forth the past hour in front of the bed where I sit cross-legged in a heap of papers, tapping away at my computer. I have at least twenty-five tabs open on my laptop.

“How are you not fuming at this, Pip?”

“I am,” I say calmly, continuing to type.

“But doesn’t it make you want to rip down the wall?”

“Certainly,” I say, flipping over to another tab on my computer. “But I’ve become accustomed to a certain level of chaos. It comes with the job. And then there’s the fact . . . he’s alive.”

My rage-relief has slipped out of proportion the past few hours.

I’m more 30 percent rage and 70 percent relief now.

Still furious, but the world has at least righted itself yet again.

Hugh is alive. Neena, Jackie, Crystal, Gordon, and even eerie Ricky are innocent.

Nash is by my side.

Better yet, Nash and I are together.

I feel better than I have in a long time.

There’s going to be one heck of an explanation needed for all this, and a salary increase demand of at least 50 percent or I’ll sue. I’m fine. We’re all fine. Life, in its most sincere and beautiful word, is fine.

“What does he want? It can’t be money. Can it?”

My raised eyebrow is my answer.

“Is this part of the sick game then?” Nash says. “Another twisted clue?”

“The game is up,” I say. “Least, the first part is over. I’ve solved it. Hugh isn’t dead.”

“And yet,” Nash says broodily, “I can’t believe everything he’s done to us the past few days. And for what? I know he likes his little games, but this has gone too far.”

“No, there’s something about this one,” I murmur, more to myself than Nash. I lean back from my computer and reach for my notebook. I begin flipping through my notes. “This isn’t research for him. This isn’t some party trick gone wrong. He’s really after something. But what—?”

“I’m going down again to try to find him.”

“Won’t work. He’s MIA. They all are.”

“Traitors,” he hisses.

I nod.

What else is there to say?

Everybody has disappeared since I discovered the envelope. I don’t know who was watching me, or from what vantage point, but after combing through the lounge and finding nobody, I raced upstairs, only to find everybody gone. They weren’t in the dining rooms. They weren’t in the lounges or the libraries or on deck. Nobody was in their bedrooms, and believe me, I picked every single lock.