Page 120 of Without a Clue

One knife for Hugh. A second for Carragan.

Hugh’s note directing us to beware of Nash. The knife in his room.

And it explains the Carragan murder. Perhaps he killed him and hid him under the bed while I slept. And then when he came back with me into the room, he stepped in first under the guise of “checking the place out,” unrolled the body, and—bam—he has an alibi.

He just walked in with me, practically at the same time.

Airtight alibi.

And then throw a knife in Crystal’s room for good measure and . . .

My heart feels like it lets out a deep, guttural groan of despair and I sink my head forward.

Despair for what was happening between us that will never happen. For a future together that will be no more.

And we were so. Close.

I was so. So. So. Close to such happiness.

I drop the knife in the bag rapidly, push it down until it’s drowned in flannel, and snap the bag back exactly as it was before.

The whole way I’m running back upstairs, my hand is heavy at my side. An anchor at my side. Desperate to be scrubbed clean, but there’s no time.

I skid to a stop as I near the corner and peek around it.

Nash is frowning, nervousness etched on his face, tea in hand. He scans the area.

And what I earlier assumed was worry for my safety shifts now as I see it with a pang of fear. What if he’s nervous for other reasons? What’s the saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?

Quickly I move to the railing just out of view and drape my elbows over it. Staring out to sea and focusing everything in me on catching my breath.

Calming myself.

Settle down.

Calm.

My hand still pulses, and I look at it.

No sign of blood.

Yet still impure.

The salty wind whips at my face, quickly lapping up moisture that keeps rising in my tear ducts.

What are we going to do?

What can I do now?

I can’t think about it.

Any thoughts just give way to a series of new fears, and those fears threaten to overwhelm me.

Don’t. Think.

Just take it one step at a time.

Breathe.