And Tamsin—poor, scared Tamsin—is practically pulsating with anxiety.I need to tell someone. But who? What if they find out I’m talking?
“Well,” Georgie announces, standing up and nearly toppling over as the boat hits a wave, “I think we should play a game. Twenty questions. Everyone asks the person next to them where they were when Brittany died.”
“Georgie, sit down,” Mom says, grabbing her arm.
“What? I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“You’re trying to start a riot.”
“Same thing.”
Mackenzie pinches the bridge of her nose. “Can we please just have one civilized gathering without someone accusing someone else of murder?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Georgie mutters, but she sits back down anyway.
The yacht starts turning, heading back toward the marina, and I can see the coastline getting closer. The sun is starting to dip lower in the sky, painting everything in that golden late-afternoon light that makes even murder investigations look pretty.
This has been the longest boat ride of my life,Fish says.And I once got trapped in a fishing boat for six hours.
I’m just saying, if anyone wants to share that caviar, I’m available,Sherlock barks.
We’re all going to die onthis boat,Biscuit Gravy says dramatically.I can feel it. Death by rich people and bad decisions. It happened before—in fact, just last night to Brittany.
He’s got a point there.
Blaire bolts up suddenly, her champagne sloshing over the rim of her glass. “I need some air.”
We’re literally surrounded by air, and far too much of it, but nobody points that out.
She makes her way toward the back of the yacht—the stern, I think they call it, though I’m not about to start using nautical terms now—and positions herself near the railing, staring out at the water.
There she is. All alone. She’s practically begging me to pay her a visit.
I catch Mackenzie’s eye and give her a subtle nod. She understands immediately, because despite our complicated history, we’re both good at reading a room.
“Fish, Sherlock, Biscuit Gravy—stay with Mom and Georgie,” I murmur.
Finally,Fish says.Some action. Try not to get us pushed overboard.
If you need backup, just whistle,Sherlock offers.
You don’t know how to whistle, Bizzy,Biscuit Gravy points out.I heard you try it this morning.
I start making my way across the deck toward Blaire Kensington.
Time to find out exactly what secrets died with Brittany Vanderbilt, and why Blaire’s so relieved about it.
CHAPTER 8
Blaire Kensington stands at the railing, gazing out at the ocean like she’s part of the view.
The sun is dropping lower now, turning everything golden and hazy, and the ocean breeze has picked up enough that her auburn hair is actually moving despite what I’m guessing is half a can of high-end hairspray. She’s still clutching that champagne flute, and from this angle I can see her knuckles are white. The yacht rocks gently beneath us, and somewhere behind me I can hear Georgie asking Mom if they sell barf bags on luxury vessels.
I make my way across the teak deck with Fish tucked in my arms, Sherlock and Biscuit Gravy trailing behind like the world’s least intimidating backup team. So much for staying with my mother. Let’s just say they were insistent.
She smells expensive,Fish observes.Like old money and new secrets. Also, is that Chanel? Because I’m getting strong Chanel vibes. This woman screams get me to a country club, stat.
She sort of does.
