Page 92 of Without a Clue

It’s clear he doesn’t agree with me. It’s clear he doesn’t agree with my methods or madness. But he gives in.

“Alright, Pip,” he says in a low murmur. “Solve my book for me. Finish up this puzzle and I’ll be forever in your gratitude.”

“Thank you,” I say a little sarcastically (but totally not sarcastically) and look back to the computer.

It takes two more hours to get there.

We brainstorm long enough to a eureka moment, at which point Nash takes over the computer.

Meanwhile, with phase one of “help Nash finish his book” complete, I move on to phase two.

I order refreshments to the room (I honestly don’t know how I’m going to go back to normal society after this) and have begun to imagine a man on the other line in coattails and a peacock bow tie crying out the second we hang up and a flurry of people in coattails and peacock bow ties sprinting down the halls, when there’s that polite knock on the door.

I’ve hardly had time to set the phone back on the receiver.

It’s incredible.

With a glance back to Nash—who truly does look quite contented surrounded by the flickering candles, typing on his laptop with zeroed-in focus—I look through the peephole, see the bow tie, and open the door.

“Hello,” I say.

“Your dessert, ma’am.”

I take it from him, squinting as I look for some sign that would give him away.

A pulse bouncing at his neck.

Sweat building up at his temple.

Anything.

“Anything else, ma’am?” he says politely, like it’s not two in the morning but a sensible hour in the middle of the day.

“No, that’s all for now. Thanks . . . again,” I say and hand him a bit of cash (which in itself is stressful—you feel like an idiot handing over an old wadded-up ten-dollar bill when it seems pretty clear fresh-off-the-mint hundred-dollar bills are the only acceptable form of payment).

He gives a sincere little bow and slips the bill somewhere out of sight on his body.

I’m still almost certain he will disinfect the bill the second he gets to some back room. There’s probably a whole bin dedicated to disinfecting crumpled less-than-one-hundred-dollar bills.

I move to shut the door with my two plates of cheesecake in hand, but upon second thought open it again and look out.

Perhaps I will catch him sprinting down the hallway now, off to another errand.

He’s stepping lightly but is no speeding bullet.

I watch in silence for him to suddenly leap like a deer or something, but he just glides through the locked door for the wing and over to the elevator doors. Presses the button. Waits in silence.

How deflating.

The elevator dings, and as the doors slide open and he slips in, I hear a latch turn to my left. My head turns without really thinking, and a moment later I suck in my breath and duck my head back in.

At two in the morning, there is Crystal, alone.

Walking out her door.

Her face says it all.

This is a woman who couldn’t care less that a man was murdered.