Page 37 of Without a Clue

Meet in the library. NOW.

As we move along the hall, Nash’s hands are stuffed in his pockets. “Will you tell on me?”

A whisper of a smile lifts my lips. I can absolutely see him as a first grader, wooden slingshot behind his back, paper ball in the teacher’s hair.

And it’s funny, because a part of me couldn’t imagine it possible to ever smile again.

When we get to the room, Nash turns the knob.

The door swings open.

It looks just like the cover of a Clue board game.

Carragan is standing with his hands on his hips to one side of the velvet couch.

Ricky is beside the curtain.

Neena stands beside the bookshelf, gripping a hardback book like a weapon.

Jackie is clenching her handkerchief between tight white knuckles by the lampshade.

Gordon sits at the chess set, looking up and over his shoulder at Jackie as though ready to knock the pieces over and use the board as a shield at any moment.

And Crystal, facing everybody with her back to us, is drowning herself in her phone.

I look at the bold letters at the top of the article she’s reading. “Ten Easy Ways to Use a Water Bottle to Kill in Self-Defense.”

Super.

Great to see everyone is handling this like champs.

Chapter 8

Carragan gives everyone the lecture of a lifetime.

Shouting about how we have to “act natural or get ourselves all sunk.”

Yelling, “You all—excluding that lady over there [me]—are authors who make up characters in your books all the time; just pretend you’re one of those sane people over the course of this trip!”

Honestly, I’ve never seen an officer so insensitive, all things considered.

But I guess that isn’t part of the job description.

Nash is right.

The group has wound themselves into such a fit of worry that by eight o’clock, they look like they are trying to tiptoe on the point of a knife.

Leaving them alone did them no favors. I may have had three momentary panic attacks over the day, but something about staying busy at least let me keep my wits about me.

“You’re up,” Carragan grunts at the end of his long lecture, motioning to me. “The rest of you”—he waves his hands in the air in an I couldn’t care less if you live or die way—“go to your rooms, stay here, end up on deck, I don’t care. Miss Dupont, I’ll follow you.”

He motions for me to walk ahead of him, to my room I presume.

Makes sense.

Nash had said Carragan spent half of his interview poking around the pillowcases looking for clues.

I cast one glance back at the group and (aside from Nash) see the hollow, frightened, and frankly suspicious glares.