Georgie rubs her hands together. “I haven’t been on a yacht since 1987, and that ended with a restraining order and three broken ribs. Not mine, mind you.”
“Of course not,” I say, becausewith Georgie, the chaos is always redirected onto others. That’s always worked as a built-in safety mechanism for her.
Macy looks at her watch. “You’d better get going. It’s almost two-thirty, and knowing Mackenzie, she’ll scalp you if you’re late.”
“She wishes,” I say.
“Only one way to find out.” Macy smiles. She does love to lean into other people’s pain. “Here’s hoping you come home with hair.”
I grab the stroller handle and start backing toward the door, trying to ignore the fact that the smell has now permeated my clothes and I’m going to need a shower before I can be seen in polite society.
Mom and Georgie are bustling next to me. The pets fall into formation with Fish perched on the diaper bag, Sherlock trotting alongside me, and Biscuit Gravy bringing up the rear with a swagger that says he’s not worried about any yacht club dress code.
Or a shared odor we might be carrying.
“Wish us luck,” I call back to Macy.
“Luck?” She holds up a Seaside Surprise candle. “At this point, I’m not sure luck is even in our vocabulary.”
She’s got me there, but if I’m about to spend the afternoon on a boat with a pack of mean girls and perhaps a killer, I’m going to need more than luck.
I’m going to need a miracle, a life vest, and possibly a gas mask.
CHAPTER 7
If wealth had a smell, it would be this yacht—expensive sunscreen, champagne on ice, and the kind of teak wood that probably requires a full-time employee just to polish it.
The boat—a yacht, apparently—is calledSerenity’s Edge, which feels like tempting fate considering we’re currently floating around with a killer and Mackenzie’s questionable friends, AKA a pack of mean girls who think grief is a photo opportunity.
The sun is beating down on the gleaming white deck, the ocean spray is misting over the brass railings every time we hit a wave, and somewhere below us the engine hums like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
Or at least I hope it does. I’m not the biggest fan of seaworthy vessels.
Mackenzie sits on a white leather bench that doesn’t look like it gets much use, her ankles crossed like she’s trying to prove a point. She’s in a navy sundress and oversized sunglasses that take up half her face. Mom and Georgieclaimed the opposite bench the moment we boarded, and they’re currently working their way through a bottle of rosé like it’s their job.
Mom is in white linen pants and a striped boat neck top that’s veryI summer in the Hamptons, and Georgie’s kaftan at this moment features oversized anchors and the wordsSeas the Dayin glittery script across the back.
I took Ella straight to Dad and Gwyneth’s so she could enjoy a nice long nap before her playdate while Mommy went pretending to enjoy being gently rocked toward a slow, watery demise.
This boat smells like money and bad decisions,Fish mewls from her perch in the designer tote bag on my arm.Also, there’s definitely caviar somewhere. I can smell it. Dibs if I find it first.
Are we eating caviar?Sherlock lifts his head while sprawled at my feet on the teak deck.Please tell me we’re eating the caviar.
We’re on a boat with a killer and you’re thinking about fish eggs,Biscuit Gravy says, sitting primly next to a deck chair.Priorities, my friend. And also, second dibs once we find those fish eggs.
I’ve been eating caviar for years. I’m sort of a fan.
The rest of Mackenzie’s friends are scattered across the deck in various states of performative mourning. Most of them are in that background extra category—holding drinks, adjusting sunglasses, checking phones—but the four I’m actually interested in are front and center.
Sloane Fletcher-Ramsey is positioned in the shade beneath a white canvas awning, her ash blonde bob not moving despite the ocean breeze, which suggests either excellenthairspray or a deal with dark forces. She’s wearing a scrumptious pale yellow sundress that screamsI’m effortlessly elegantwhile probably requiring three hours to garner her approval and a professional stylist. Her wine glass is barely touched, and she’s got that composed, unruffled look that makes me want to poke her just to see if she’s real.
“It’s just so tragic,” Sloane says, and her voice has all the emotion of someone reading a grocery list. “Brittany had so much life ahead of her.”Thank goodness that’s over. Now I can breathe.
My mouth falls open when I hear the thought, and I almost drop Fish’s tote bag.
There’s relief there, pure and simple, wrapped up in a neat little bow of self-satisfaction. She takes a delicate sip of wine while adjusting her sunglasses, and I’m struck by how calm she is. Too calm if you ask me. Like she’s already moved on to planning her next vacation. And I’m guessing, it’s not to the state penitentiary.
It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since their fearless leader was stabbed to death on the beach and none of these women seem all that broken up over it.
