Page 66 of Without a Clue

“Jackie?” I call again.

The pause before she responds is a lifetime.

“What?” she snaps at last, and I can honestly say I have never been more relieved to hear her irritated voice.

I let go of the door.

Step forward as the door swings shut.

Turn the corner.

Halt.

“Jackie? What are you . . . doing?”

I cast my eyes around, gathering in the surroundings.

Jackie is standing in the center of the room, in the dark. The heavy drapes on the wall of windows are drawn. A coffee table is beside her, alongside half a dozen wingback chairs.

Nobody is in the room.

Jackie herself looks . . . in a word . . . rigid. As in, more rigid. (Has she ever not looked rigid? I bet the woman sleeps like a statue.)

“I’m . . .” She looks to the ceiling, directing her scowl there for several seconds. “I’m . . . stretching.”

“Here?”

“Yes.” With minimal effort, she draws her left foot backward, then leans her weight on her right thigh.

“In the dark?”

“It’s calming.”

My brows furrow. “With a knife in your pocket?”

“Obviously not.”

I point at the handle of the steak knife at the hip of her tweed pants.

“Except . . . for that one,” she says, pulling it out by the gleaming white handle.

What . . . in the Sam Hill?

She takes a breath.

Looks up at the ceiling one more time.

Squeezes her eyes shut.

And opens them.

When she looks at me again, there’s a certainty in her expression.

Something surprising. Something decided.

It sends a chill up my spine.

“Fine. You caught me. You no doubt find it suspicious. But obviously I keep personal protection on me, Pip. I’m not a fool who would walk anywhere around this ship alone when two people have been murdered. Luck favors the prepared.”