Page 31 of Without a Clue

Jackie chases after the gurney angrily.

Gordon keeps asking the same questions on repeat to nobody in particular.

Ricky slips off silently, keeping his brooding thoughts to himself.

Crystal and Nash take to cornering the officer, demanding every single detail, all with a vague tone of accusation.

As this is my second round, I just sit on the hallway floor, staring into nothingness.

Nothing makes sense.

Nothing.

At last the officer who directed the gurney away gathers us all together like sheep—even Ricky from his morose position behind a curtain—and herds us back to the library. He’s older, bald, built like a concrete block, and walks like a man accustomed to the dark side of existence. The deep etches across his forehead follow the trail of his permanent-looking scowl.

“Sit down. Now,” he instructs, gathering Ricky from the back of his collar before he can slip off again. “I wanna be able to see each and every one of you.”

Jackie, Gordon, Neena, and Crystal sit on the long leather sofa, Ricky to the side, and Nash and I find ourselves standing behind it. Nash looks from the officer to me, and after seeing my face, the burning look in his blue eyes cools.

He closes the gap between us.

Wordlessly rests his hand over mine.

“First off,” the officer begins, glancing from one face to another, “allow me to give my condolences.”

He says this begrudgingly, like a flight attendant spewing out a script that’s required and hating every moment. He speeds up. “This is a shocking experience for everyone. May the deceased rest in peace.

“My name is Ralph Carragan. Feel free to call me by any name you like. Officer. Security. Ralph. Carragan. I’m the head chief of security on this vessel and will be your point of contact here on out. And as for you all, I know who you are. No need to fill me in.”

He shifts his weight. “I’m given to understand each of you were supposed to be providing guest author sessions today in your appointed conference rooms. Can I presume each of you are under enough emotional duress that you will not be able to attend to your preregistered sessions in good mental health?”

He pauses.

The group nods.

“Fine,” he says shortly, then beckons the other man in uniform and whispers something to him behind his notebook. The man nods subserviently and whisks himself out of the room.

“And who’s in charge of organizing these events?” he says, scanning each of our eyes until he comes upon mine.

I raise my hand.

“You, Miss . . .”

“Penelope,” I say. Then, when that doesn’t seem to satisfy, I add, “Dupont.”

“Well, Dupont, several hundred fans of this group have spent a sum of over four million dollars collectively for this vessel experience. This is a . . . unique situation the ship is in. No insurance measures cover something like this. The higher-ups have requested—no, insisted—I continue the vessel forward on its journey. The police on land, likewise, find it . . . convenient . . . to continue. And to that end, the less people know, the better. Can you distract them?”

“What? Like pull off a one-man show?”

The image of me tap-dancing across a stage for the next ten days while the rest of them cry in their rooms floods me.

“I can’t do that,” I say.

“Well, you need to figure out something.”

I raise my brow. “Me? What would you have me do?”

“I don’t care. Just do it in such a way that they are satisfied. Watch a movie. Read aloud these people’s books. But whatever you do, the important thing we need to maintain here is a sense of normalcy.”