Page 16 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of awkward news,” I say, trying not to laugh because this is genuinely serious and also, unfortunately, hilarious, “but there’s been a homicide on every single cruise on this ship since I set foot on it.” I spear a piece of bacon for emphasis. “So you can clearly see, it’s me who’s jinxed. You’re not the curse, honey. You’re just seated next to one.”

Marina’s fork freezes halfway to her mouth. “Every cruise?”

“Every. Single. One.”

“Oh my word.” She glances around as if she’s scanning for exits. And maybe a lifeboat.

“Yeah.” I take a triumphant bite of bacon. “My life is basically a true crime podcast at this point, except I’m the recurring guest star who keeps finding bodies instead of just talking about them in a cozy studio.” I pause. “Also, I don’t get ad revenue, which feels deeply unfair. At the very least somebody owes me a shoe sponsorship. All this sleuthing is murder on my arches. And a lifetime supply of waterproof mascara. Heaven knows I’ve earned the mascara.”

Marina stares at me, visibly reevaluating every decision that led her to accept a job on this particularly homicidal ship. “How are you so calm about this?”

“Practice?” I shrug and sip my orange juice. “At a certain point, you either laugh or you start wearing all black and listening to depressing music while contemplating the futility of existence. I choose laughter. And waffles. Mostly waffles. And molten hot lava cake.”

She toasts me with her latte. “That’s very healthy of you.”

“I have my moments.” I cut into my waffle and watch the syrup pool around it. “Although my therapist would have some thoughts about using breakfast foods as a coping mechanism.”

“Do you have a therapist?”

“No, but I probably should at this point. Somewhere out there, a licensed professional is living her best life precisely because she’s never met me.”

We share a laugh, and I’m gearing up to steer this conversation into something more probing, namely what exactly Marina was running from in Copenhagen and why she looked so relieved when we finally set sail, when Quinn Riddle strides past our table on what appears to be very official business.

Then she stops and backtracks.

And just like that, my morning takes a turn for the hostile.

“Here we go,” I mutter.

Quinn is Ransom’s counterpart in vessel security, and she wears the title like a crown, and heaven help whoever reaches for it. Her skin is paper white, either from avoiding the sun religiously or from being part vampire. The jury’s still out. Her black hair is pulled back into a bun so tight it has to be causing a migraine, and she sports her navy uniform with a solid fifteen percent too much pride. The buttons gleam. The creases could slice bread. Somewhere in her cabin, an ironing board is dedicated exclusively to her underwear.

The woman is starch incarnate.

She’s also the founding president, treasurer, and sole member of the I Don’t Care for Trixie Troublefield Baxter Club, which holds hourly meetings in her head. Attendance is mandatory. Minutes are kept. Grievances are filed in triplicate.

“Trixie.” Her voice could curdle milk and possibly strip the lacquer right off the steering wheel of this vessel. “Why am I not surprised you’re the one who found another body?”

I set down my fork slowly. “Good morning to you too, Quinn. Lovely weather we’re having.” I force a smile, but only because I know it will annoy the heck out of her.

“It’s not a good morning.” She wastes no time snipping at me. “A woman is dead. Crushed by an ice sculpture at a book club bon voyage party.” She crosses her arms, and her nails are painted blood red. Do vampires paint their nails? And if so, is it polish or is it evidence? “Care to explain how you keep ending up at crime scenes?”

“Bad luck?” I offer. “Karma? A particularly vindictive curse someone purchased off Etsy?”

Perhaps all three.

Marina clears her throat. “Actually, technically speaking, the poor woman found Trixie just before she dropped dead. Trixie was standing there minding her own business when Astrid grabbed her and started convulsing and⁠—”

“I don’t care about technicalities,” Quinn snaps, her eyes never leaving mine. They’re dark and sharp and currently shooting daggers. Very on theme for this cruise. “I care about the fact that every single time there’s a homicide on this ship, you’re somehow involved. Without fail.”

“Correlation doesn’t equal causation,” I say, taking a bite of my chocolate croissant and pausing a moment to swallow while I let her simmer. “I learned that in statistics class. Fine, I learned it from Bess, but the principle holds.”

Quinn leans in closer, and I catch a whiff of her perfume, something expensive and cold with notes of ice and judgment. If disappointment had a base note, she found it and bought a case. “You should watch your back, Trixie. Both of you.” She glances at Marina. “This investigation is under my jurisdiction, and I won’t tolerate any interference. None. Zero. I’ve already notified Swedish authorities, and when we dock in Gothenburg, they’ll be assisting with this. Until then, you stay out of my way.”

“Wouldn’t dream of interfering,” I lie cheerfully, my smile as sweet as the syrup on my waffle.

The truth is, I’ve already dreamed of interfering. Last night, in fact, and it was intense. Thankfully, Ransom was there to kiss away the trauma. That man is pure gold.

“I mean it.” She straightens and adjusts her uniform. No doubt the woman irons her jeans. I’d stake my waffle on it. “Stay out of my investigation.”