Page 37 of Fire and Ice Cruise

“Same time tomorrow?” Nettie asks as we head toward the gangway.

“Tomorrow’s a sea day,” Bess reminds her.

“Even better,” Nettie says with a sigh. “I plan to spend the entire day horizontal with a lava cake.”

I glance back at the town one more time—the charming painted houses, the white church on the hill, the mountains rising up like skyscrapers—and I feel something settle in my chest. This is what life looks like when you let go of what you thought it should be and embrace what it actually is: chaotic, unpredictable, smelling vaguely of sulfur, and absolutely perfect.

Tomorrow is a sea day, which means twenty-four uninterrupted hours of nowhere to run.

Gideon Vale didn’t get a tomorrow.

And I’ll make sure his killer doesn’t get to keep theirs.

CHAPTER 12

Day 4: At Sea / Scenic Cruising

The observation deck on Deck Ten is freezing, windy, and exactly where I want to be, on this icy sea day.

Iceland’s coastline slides past the ship in a procession of drama with sheer cliffs dropping straight into the churning North Atlantic, fjords cutting deep into mountains where the earth cracked open and never quite healed, and waterfalls cascading down black rockfaces that disappear into sea foam.

The sky is that moody gray that makes everything look like a Gothic painting, and somewhere in the distance, I swear I spot a whale tail breaking the surface. It’s stunning in a way that makes my fingers itch for a paintbrush or a camera.

Bess, Nettie, and I are bundled in our winter coats, clutching coffee cups like lifelines while our hair whips around our faces despite our best efforts to tame it.

“This is gorgeous,” I say for the third time in ten minutes.

“This is hypothermia waiting to happen,” Bess counters, but she’s smiling. “But it’s worth it.”

A gust of wind swings the deck door open behind us, and Marina slips through carrying her own steaming mug. Her crimson hair immediately joins the rebellion against the wind, and she laughs as she tries to gather it into submission.

“Room for one more?” she calls out.

“Always,” I shout back and motioning her over.

I scoot over on the bench, and she settles in beside me.

We sit in silence for a moment, watching the never-ending coastline roll past us. A waterfall appears on a sheer cliffside, tumbling directly into the ocean, and we all gasp at the same time.

“How is this real?” Marina murmurs.

“Iceland doesn’t do anything halfway,” Bess says. “It’s all volcanoes and waterfalls and dramatic geological statements.”

“Speaking of dramatic statements,” Nettie says, glancing at Marina and me, “you’re both staring down the big five-oh and you’ve got less than a week before the odometer rolls over.”

I groan. “Don’t remind me.”

Marina grunts. “Or me.”

“What’s wrong with fifty?” Bess asks. “I’m eighty-three and thriving.”

“Fifty feels different,” I say. “It’s this weird milestone where you’re supposed to have everything figured out, but instead you’re just wondering where the last thirty years went.”

Marina nods. “Exactly. I keep thinking, is this it? Is this what my life looks like now?”

“And what does it look like?” Nettie asks.

“Honestly?” She shakes out her crimson locks. “I have no idea. I’ve spent the last decade working nonstop, and now I’m on a cruise ship trying to figure out what comes next.” She takes a sip of coffee. “It’s terrifying and exciting at the same time.”