Page 42 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

“There’s also a two-year gap in her address history,” Ransom says once the celebration dies down.

“What does that mean?” I ask, though I’m starting to get a sinking feeling about where this is going.

“No lease records. No utility accounts in her name. No property filings. No clear residential footprint.”

Wes opens his mouth to mount another defense, and I watch the argument die somewhere between his brain and his lips. He closes his mouth again. It’s a Shakespearean tragedy in one act—noble captain versus mounting evidence, and the evidence has all the good lines.

And here I was hoping they were Romeo and Juliet with a better ending.

The casino air-conditioning kicks on and delivers a bouquet of dueling perfumes, buttery popcorn, expensive cologne, a hint of hard liquor, and just enough coffee to convince everyone they’re making excellent financial decisions.

It’s the official fragrance of poor judgment in velvet, and if the ship’s gift shop bottled it, I’d wear it. The sensory combination is oddly grounding even as Ransom’s dropping revelations that are rocking my world—and Wes’ world too.

“She could’ve been staying with someone,” I offer, watching Marina distribute tokens to a group of women near the blackjack table. “A boyfriend. Family. Friends.”

“She could have,” Ransom agrees, his voice neutral but his eyes sharp. “But people usually leave a trace. Credit activity. Mail forwarding. Phone bills. Streaming subscriptions. Something. Marina’s got nothing. Not erased. Just absent.”

Not erased. Just absent.

I don’t know why that distinction makes the hair on my arms stand at attention, but it does.

Wes feeds a token into his machine with more force than necessary. “So she moved to Europe. She was traveling. Remote work. People do that. Digital nomads. It’s a whole lifestyle now.”

And he’s back. There goes Wes again, riding shotgun on the Marina Maxwell fan club float. I sit up a little straighter as a ridiculous thought elbows its way into my head. Oh, this isn’t just a crush. This man isn’t kicking the tires. He’s already picking out china patterns. I think Wes would love to put a ring on her finger.

“People do move around,” Ransom concedes, pulling his lever. His machine trills and pays out again, a tidy little stack. Wow. The man cannot do a single thing wrong. The Vikings on his screen have started saluting him. Mine are staging a hunger strike. “But⁠—”

“There’s more?” I interrupt, because there always is.

Nettie appears suddenly at my elbow, breathless and clutching a goblet of something bright blue. “Trixie! Did you see that man in the horned helmet? Because I saw him. And he saw me. And when a man tips his horns at a woman, that’s practically a proposal in Norse. I looked it up.”

“You did not look it up.”

“I skimmed the vibes.”

“Nettie, I’m so sorry, we’re sort of in the middle of something,” I say gently.

“So am I! It’s called romance. Or lust. Possibly both.” She takes a sip of her blue drink and makes a face. “Sweet mother of mead, this tastes like Viking sweat.”

“How do you know what Viking sweat tastes like?” Bess has appeared behind her, clutching her tray of winnings.

“Field research.”

“What field?”

“The wide-open field of romance.”

“Your field needs a fence, a warning sign, and possibly a quarantine order.”

“Jealousy is a disease, and you’re the whole outbreak.”

They drift back toward their machines, still bickering, and I refocus on Ransom just as he says, “There’s also a minor name inconsistency.”

Wes looks up sharply, his token frozen halfway to his machine. He’s wearing the expression of a man who’s just been bonked on the head with a ceremonial battle-ax. The decorative kind, but still. “What inconsistency?”

The craps table erupts. Someone’s on a winning streak, and the whole room ratchets up another notch, the lights blinking faster, the drums thumping harder, two hundred grown adults in velvet capes vibrating with an almost violent level of glee. It’s the sound of perfectly sensible people convincing themselves they’re one roll away from buying a beach house. At least they’re forgetting their troubles. I’d like to forget a few problems myself. Instead, I’m collecting new ones by the minute.

“She goes by Marina Maxwell,” Ransom says, his voice cutting clean through the noise. “Legal records list her as Marina Valentine Madsen. Maxwell doesn’t appear in any marriage filings tied to her.”