Page 44

THE WATCHER

A fucking mess is what it is. Rowan kicked the large wooden barrel placed beside the hitching post by Ye Olde Time Photo Emporium. Now my fucking foot hurts and I’m still pissed off.

Excursions? Sure, they’d okayed excursions when they thought they were going to an actual city. But now they were in the middle of nowhere, and whoever had sabotaged them in the first place was likely still on board.

Breathe, Rowan. Remember your blood pressure.

They’d gone over the manifest themselves, both crew and guests, and hadn’t found a neon guilty sign, but they were still betting on the crew, who likely had less money and would’ve benefited from a payoff. Then again, they couldn’t rule out a rich guest who had it in for the Bennets for personal reasons.

Rowan rubbed at their temple in an attempt to banish the ache that’d taken residence since jumping backward in time. When Bennet had ‘requested’ compliance in allowing Dr. Doyle to roam free with more passengers, they’d nearly had a conniption. But the boss’s warning about not giving the Bennets too much trouble made them give in when Doyle said his peace. The engineer appeared reasonable at least. Certainly, he understood the dangers in this mess.

“You should go to the costume shop. Maybe you’ll feel better if you dress the part.”

Rowan raised their head to find a woman smiling at them. She wore a ridiculous getup that included over twenty pounds of frills and an unnecessary parasol, which she twirled between white-gloved fingers in the fake sunlight.

“Thanks for the suggestion,” they murmured, incensed at what must have been the fourteenth time the same well-meant bit of advice had been aimed their way.

Rowan continued down the winding street toward the nearest lift. They had no desire to stick around for the scheduled gunfight that would take place at high noon. Crowds and Rowan didn’t mix.

A thought struck them as Rowan stopped short on the street in front of their usual saloon. Surely, the saboteur wanted to avoid frivolity as much as Rowan. Stepping to the side, they pulled out their holopad.

“Ships manifest,” Rowan grumbled.

The screen complied and filled with a list of one hundred names. “Sort by amount of time spent in room.”

Words scrolled across the screen in response: I am sorry, but that information is confidential.

Rowan swore under their breath and tapped their wrist. “Bennet.”

“What can I do for you, Mx. Watcher?” Bennet’s voice answered immediately.

“Why can’t I access personal logs? I want to know who’s been hiding out in their rooms.”

The air stilled in the beat of silence that followed their question.

“The AI was specifically programmed not to store information or trace guests,” Bennet answered, voice sharp as broken glass.

“Why is that?” Rowan pressed, stepping to the side so they could hear better as the shouting from the staged fight behind them ensued.

“I assume you are aware of the situation we faced at Paradise Atlantis last year?”

Though the Bennets had attempted to cover up the murders at the undersea resort, Rowan knew the details. Part of their job included accessing certain sensitive information to prepare for contingencies. “I’m aware.”

“It’s a precaution. We don’t want the AI able to monitor people in case there are any issues. Not that there are. Jackson, uh Dr. Meadows, handled that personally.”

That meant little to Rowan. Sleeping with someone did not constitute trustworthiness, but they weren’t about to argue. All it really meant was another dead end.

Rowan clicked off the connection and stormed toward the lift again. They may be sick of their room, but at least it was quiet. They had a few more interviews later that day, as well, though, thus far, no one stood out as suspect.

The door to the lift opened and a familiar face grinned. Caroline Song’s violet hair was tucked up beneath her hat, but her face was possibly the only one Rowan cared to remember or share a lift with on the TCR. Rowan wasn’t much for chitchat, but when she’d mentioned having spent her life savings on the trip, they felt a pang of sympathy for her. And though they blamed it strictly on the whisky, they’d had a pleasant time with her the other day.

“If it isn’t my personal informant,” Rowan said, joining her.

Caroline blanched for a second, and they realized she probably hadn’t known she was throwing anyone under the carriage—so to speak.

“Sorry, I meant it as a joke. If I hadn’t heard about the tours from you, I never would have known,” they admitted. Rowan tried to ignore the anger and embarrassment that threatened to resurface anew.

“No problem. How’s your trip so far?” Caroline asked, adjusting her hat.