Page 8 of Fire and Ice Cruise

Marina forces a smile, though she looks as if she’d rather do anything but curve her lips in that direction. If you asked her to choose between smiling at Gideon and jumping overboard in a ball gown, she’d be asking about the water temperature.

Gideon heads toward the elevators with Silas, Holland, and Nicolette, leaving a trail of awkwardness in his wake.

We all watch the Second Act Society group cluster together near the champagne fountain, their laughter and conversation filling the atrium with that infectious energy that makes you want to join in even if you don’t know what’s funny.

Laughter erupts from somewhere in the group—inexplicably loud, almost unnaturally so. It cuts through every other sound in the atrium, drowning out conversations and even the classical music playing from the grand piano.

I turn toward the sound.

“Wow.” I marvel to Ransom. “Have you ever heard a laugh like that before? It’s as if she has a megaphone built into her neck.”

“What laugh?” He follows my gaze. “Who are you talking about?”

And then I see her.

“That woman right there.” I point toward a blonde woman in a flowing white gown who stands in the midst of the Second Act Society, her head thrown back in delight. She’s buxom and beautiful, with bright red lips and glittering white teeth. Her hair cascades down her back in perfect waves, and she’s laughing with such abandon you’d think someone just told the world’s funniest joke.

But nobody else is reacting to her.

Nobody else looks her way.

And I’m getting the feeling that nobody else sees her as well.

Oh, for heaven’s sake.

Not on embarkation day. I haven’t even stepped into my cabin. I haven’t even had an appetizer. At the very least, let me have an appetizer before the paranormal parade begins.

She turns, looks directly at me, and her expression shifts. The laughter dies. Her eyes narrow into a glare that could freeze the North Atlantic, and her perfect smile transforms into something cold and cruel. She floats toward the ceiling and dissolves in a shower of pink stars before vanishing into nothing.

I gasp as my hand flies to my chest.

“What’s wrong?” Ransom asks, pulling me in as if he was moving me out of the line of a bullet.

“She’s gone.” I pant as I whisper out the words. “And she was never really here. I just saw a ghost.” I nod, watching the Second Act Society head toward the elevators, all smiles and first-day optimism and absolutely no idea what’s coming. “And you know what that means.”

Ransom growls. “It means murder.”

CHAPTER 4

The Opaline Royale Lounge sprawls across the entire stern of Deck Twelve, and stepping into it is like walking into an underwater palace—as if Poseidon himself had something to prove.

Floor-to-ceiling windows curve along the back wall, offering panoramic views of the Copenhagen harbor, and every surface gleams with mother-of-pearl accents, seafoam green velvet, and enough crystal to stock a chandelier factory. Sculpted wave patterns ripple across the ceiling, and strategically placed aquariums glow with bioluminescent jellyfish that pulse in a hypnotic rhythm that might be trying to tell us something in Morse code.

A massive banner stretches across the far wall that reads, SECOND ACT SOCIETY in elegant gold script, with the tagline beneath reading, “The first act made you a success, the second act will make you a legend.”

The first act made me into a middle-aged woman who trips over corpses for a living. I can’t wait to see what the second act has in store. At least whatever it is, I’ll tackle it with my newfound friends and a husband who’s so hot it borders on inconsiderate.

“Well, bless my bratwurst,” Nettie breathes, her gray curls bouncing as she surveys the room. She’s wearing a sequined navy top that catches the light with every movement, paired with white capri pants and enough costume jewelry to qualify as a security risk. At eighty-something, she’s got the energy of a woman half her age and the man-hunting instincts of a lioness on the prowl. “Look at all these silver foxes. It’s like someone raided a CEO convention and herded them onto our ship.”

“And they all came willingly.” I raise an eyebrow. “What a time to be alive—if your name is Nettie Butterworth.”

Bess adjusts her sensible cardigan—coral this time, paired with pressed khaki slacks and sensible flats. Her short red hair is styled in that practical cut that screams retired schoolteacher, which she is. After thirty years teaching home economics at Honey Hollow High, her dentist husband decided his secretary was a better investment. So Bess took to the high seas on his dime, draining his bank account one port at a time. She’s a wise woman— and one I’m gladly following in the footsteps of.

“They’re just men, Nettie,” Bess chuffs. “With gray hair and questionable prostates.”

“Gray hair is distinguished.” Nettie fans herself with her hand. “And I don’t care about prostates as long as they can still dance.”

“You don’t dance.” Bess rolls her eyes. “You assault people rhythmically.”