Page 110 of Without a Clue

His eyes hold the same What on earth was that? expression as mine, and I nod to say, Right? See what I mean?

“Who’s up next?” Nash says.

“Ricky. Although he’s not answering his phone. I’m just going to have to hunt the ship to find him.”

There’s a squeak of a chair behind me.

“I’m . . . right . . . here.”

I scream.

Nash automatically reaches for a pool stick.

And out of the wingback chair in the corner rises none other than Ricky.

“How did you get in here?” I point. “How long have you been here?”

“I didn’t know . . .” he says slowly, “it was a confidential . . . meeting.”

“Of course it’s confidential!” I cry, moving my hands to my hips. Heart pounding. “You listened to our whole interview with Crystal?”

“You mean . . . Mary.”

I nod. “Yes. Yes. Obviously, that’s who I mean. So you listened in.”

“Nash listened as well. I didn’t know”—his fingers run slowly over the top edge of a paperback book in his hands—“you wanted a . . . select audience.”

How is he doing that?

He looks like his fingers are going to slice into papercuts any second.

It’s too creepy to watch.

“Alright, let’s get this over with. I’ll come to you.”

The power of mind talk is so strong between me and Nash that I don’t even need to look at him without knowing we both absolutely agree that this conversation is a keep-the-door-open-in-case-he-pulls-out-an-envelope-opener situation.

I move over to the second wingback chair in the corner.

“Penelope,” Ricky says in his low, formidable tone.

I wait.

I wait, as it turns out, for an eternity.

Ricky, if it’s possible, looks even more tired than usual. He’s always had hollow eyes that give off an I’m Dracula vibe. But clearly this trip has thrown him even more. He’s as pale as his white linen shirt.

“You’re not particularly . . . perceptive . . . are you?” he says, sitting back down. He’s crossed one knee over the other now and is looking at me like . . . well, like someone who wants to eat you for lunch. His knuckles are pearly white, strained with pressure as they clasp his knees. “I would avoid dark alleyways . . . if I were you.”

My knees pinch together. Jackie should just see me now; I have no trouble sitting rail straight at the moment. How many times have I sat alone with Ricky? Truly alone?

Does the eternal sixty-eight seconds together in the cab while waiting for Hugh count? “What does that mean?”

“Just that it would be such a pity if you were killed due to your own incapacity to . . . be aware of your . . . surroundings.”

He looks downtrodden, as though I’ve died already.

“Such,” he continues, “a pity.”