Page 135 of Without a Clue

Nash purses his lips. “You already are a little. Right now.”

“I’m going to keep this happy dreamy daze going a little bit longer.” I motion between the two of us. “Let’s just keep this cotton candy vibe going for as long as we can.”

“This relationship started in the middle of a murder investigation. So . . .”

“Well, the investigation ends now.”

“I can’t let you put yourself in danger.”

I laugh. One of those very forceful, I’m seriously going to get somebody as soon as I leave here laughs. Maybe that type of laugh didn’t exist in the world before this moment, but it sure does now. “Oh, believe me. The last person you need to be worrying about right now is me. And you’re just going to have to trust me.” I purse my lips, knowing full well that the next words that come out of my mouth will seal the deal. “Just like I trust you.”

He raises a finger. “Now, that’s not fair.”

I smile. Smile like someone who has won. “Sure it is.”

Nash frowns at me for some time, his lips pursed beneath that beard of his.

I stare him down right back.

Eventually he drops his head, his hat bowing to the ground as he waves a hand. “Fine. I’ll call you when I finagle the lock and get into this next room. But I’m more accustomed to doing legal things.”

“You’ll be a natural, I’m sure of it.”

I wheel around and race down the hall, hit my finger to the down button on the elevator, and step inside.

My heart is racing.

My chest is pounding.

Relief-rage.

It’s a most fitting term.

And that relief-rage fills my senses and propels me forward with enough power that I don’t even hesitate until I’ve stepped off the elevator to The Hole (terrible name), charged past the piano bar, and I’m two more shops down the hall.

I’m good mentally until I look back, and the exit (i.e., elevator) is so far away it’s blocked by people.

You’re fine.

You can do it.

I take a breath, trying not to focus on the zigzag pattern of the carpet or the growing noise.

Things are more neon down here, less antique gold and more glow, less the glissando of the harpist and more the loud speakers of the dance floor. It’s darker, louder, and, overarchingly, far less charmed.

I hate it.

The growing tension gnaws at my stomach—the fight-or-flight reaction building for me suddenly to bowl people over and get out.

I urge myself on.

It’s the worst of dreams, the kind where your feet feel like lead as you drag yourself forward. This is me inching forward while oblivious shoppers breeze by with their bags and takeaways.

At last, and with great mental endurance and emotional sacrifice, I stand beneath the large and glorious script of the last and final room: The Blue Lagoon Lounge.

“Hi, may I help you?” a host vaguely says to my left.

I don’t look at him.