Page 131 of Without a Clue

Like Neena beside me. Like Gordon.

How they can stand to drift together in and out, holding each other as partners while also considering each other a murder suspect . . . one would think it impossible.

The world swirls around them and they look like they’re blissfully in the very center of it. Glittering chandelier overhead. Dozens of readers in their chiffon and satin, eating and making merry on all sides. Gordon and Neena twirling round and round in a rhythm of their own.

Gordon.

And Neena.

Cheek to cheek.

Nose to nose.

I slow.

Lean back and take a proper look at the two of them.

Neena’s got her sheer purple scarf wrapped around the pair of them. Gordon’s got his hand around her waist, fingers splayed, as they move in rhythm. His gaze is so intent on her, well, he looks at her like he looked at the game when he saved the princess and won the high score. He looks . . . well . . . if I didn’t know better . . . in love himself.

“I’ve always had a weakness for a man in a good hat,” I whisper.

“What?” Nash says, and I pull away, looking into his face.

“Neena said that when we got on the ship our first day. I thought at the time she was talking about the captain, but Gordon. I never imagined . . . Gordon. He was right there all this time.”

I remember the picture clearly. She was looking behind me just as the captain passed. The captain and Gordon wearing hats. I just assumed . . .

Nash follows my eyes toward the pair and together we watch.

“How long do you think it’s been going on?” I say.

“I don’t know,” Nash says. “They didn’t put up a fight when they were bumped from that flight to the German Book Festival.”

“That’s right,” I say, remembering. They volunteered themselves to hop off the overbooked flight like it was nothing. Acting like taking a 3 a.m. flight was no big deal.

But of course it’s a big deal.

Taking a red-eye is of course a big deal.

“You remember what she said?” I say. “He volunteered to step off the flight and she jumped up a moment later and said, ‘Oh fine. I’ll go. I wanted a Toblerone bar at the Duty Free anyway.’ Who gives up eight hours for a Toblerone bar?”

“I love Toblerones.”

“Everybody loves Toblerones. They’re delicious. But the point is—” I wave a hand out at the two of them. “Hang on,” I say suddenly, letting go.

I move toward our table.

“You want me to come?” he says.

“You want to stay here and dance alone?”

Together Nash and I make our way back to our table. Nobody notices or says anything, other than the occasional compliment offered our—mostly his—way.

I slide into Neena’s old chair.

Nash slips down beside me.

“Help me look normal,” I say. “Make conversation. Laugh.”