Page 123 of Without a Clue

“Excuse me, but this is serious.”

“It’s somebody else’s job.”

“Who isn’t doing his job.”

“Do you know that with certainty?”

I swallow.

“You know, what’s interesting to me is you can’t help yourself, can you?” Gordon squints at me, seeing right through me. “You’ve got the investigator’s heart. You can’t leave things well enough alone. Hugh did too, you know.”

I swallow.

The point is still too raw. “How can I possibly think of doing anything else at a time like this?”

Gordon waves a hand around us. “This is precisely what Hugh would’ve wanted us to be doing.”

“This.” My voice is flat as I look around. “Hugh would’ve wanted us to be doing . . . this.”

“Living.”

He sighs. Pauses from the game (which promptly gets his character killed), fishes in his pocket, and pulls out a couple of quarters, which he hands to me.

“Here you go.”

“What’s this?”

“Play.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Play a game.”

“No.”

“Trust me.”

“How can I trust anyone?” I say, and dare a glance over at Nash, who is standing guard beneath The Dungeon’s entrance sign. To Gordon’s credit, Nash looks the calmest and most distracted he’s been in days.

Yes, Gordon has an entire inheritance and sum of who-knows-what being sent his way. But on the other hand, he’s the least likely of us all and we all know it.

Or, of course, there’s that horrible chance Nash is quietly writing his novel in the corner because, of course, he knows who the real murderer is.

It’s himself.

Stop thinking about it.

Stop thinking or you’re going to start passing out or crying or any of the things you need to NOT do right now.

Gordon pats my hand.

He draws my attention back to his eyes. They are soft. Gentle.

Wordlessly he guides me to the machine on the other side of him.

Wordlessly I follow.

“Tell me something, Penelope. Have you done anything relaxing in the nine days we’ve been on this ship?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “You know, I’m a writer.”