Page 65 of Without a Clue

I jump up and begin a brisk walk in the direction Jackie went.

“Will you return, miss? May I raise your umbrella?” the man calls out.

At this point it’s just rude to deny him. “Oh yes!” I call back. “Thank you. That’d be terrific.”

And then I turn the corner.

The stretch of deck ahead of me is long and narrow. The ship railing lies to the right, with a stretch of ocean beyond. A dozen doors stand stoically to the left, quiet and waiting.

A few strollers dot the deck, floppy hats and bright tops whipping in the breeze.

There is no sign of Jackie as far as the eye can see, and I would spot her, given she was dressed like she was prepping for a funeral just as much as me.

It should be as easy as spotting a penguin in a crowd of flamingos.

I never should have let her go. What was the rule we all agreed on?

Groups of two or more.

Ambulatory recess or not.

Swiftly I pull open the first door to my left.

A carpeted hallway running the length of the boat.

Empty.

Next.

I stride on, yanking open door after door.

By the time I’m on my eighth door, my certainty about hearing Jackie’s cry is waning, and a part of me is starting to consider turning back.

Perhaps she’s walked the circle by now and is waiting for me, foot tapping, sighing exasperatedly.

She’s probably dusting off her lounge chair right now, scowling at the server trying to offer her an umbrella in a drink.

Just one more door.

I dart a look inside the door ahead of me. Just as I’m about to move on, however, my eye is drawn to the only—and unusually—dark room to the right.

A gilded sign hangs on the wall beside the entry. Greeting Lounge.

A greeting lounge for the hallway, just like in every other hall on the ship, and yet this one is dark.

Intentionally dark.

I take a step forward.

Feel my nerves shoot through my body.

Hesitate to walk another step.

“Jackie?” I call out, arm holding open the door.

Sea-salt air mingles with trace orangey scents of room perfume, the thick Atlantic mixing with the crisp thin oxygen of manufactured air-conditioning.

Childhood me feels incredibly guilty as I hear my mother’s voice telling me not to let the air out and shut the door.