Page 64 of Fire and Ice Cruise

“Wes, I think she’s hiding something,” I say quietly.

“Most people are.” He turns to face me. “The question is whether what she’s hiding is relevant to why we had a dead man in our morgue or just relevant to why she’s unhappy.”

“I’d like to know the answer to that myself.”

Bess and Nettie appear with their custom omelets, oblivious to the drama they missed.

“Ready to go boil ourselves in volcanic water?” Nettie asks cheerfully.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, even though what I really want to do is follow Marina and figure out exactly what she’s running from.

But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’ve been so focused on catching a killer that I’ve forgotten how to just be a friend to someone who clearly needs one.

Or maybe Marina Maxwell is guilty as sin and putting on the performance of her life.

Either way, the Blue Lagoon awaits, and if I’m going to solve a murder and salvage a friendship, I’m going to need all the relaxation I can get.

But first. I pick up my chocolate croissant.

Sustenance.

CHAPTER 21

The shuttle bus smells like diesel and anticipation, and I’m wedged between Bess and the window watching Iceland’s landscape turn increasingly alien.

We left Reykjavik twenty minutes ago, and the colorful buildings have given way to something that looks like the moon decided to take over the planet. Black lava fields stretch in every direction, covered in neon green moss that glows against the volcanic rock. Steam rises from random spots in the ground because apparently geothermal activity doesn’t believe in subtlety here.

Wes sits across the aisle, looking relaxed in jeans and a sweater. He’s fully in off-duty captain mode, which is somehow more distracting than uniformed captain mode. Ransom sits beside me, quiet but present, staring out the window with that expression he gets when he’s thinking too hard about things he can’t control.

Meanwhile, Nettie is reading a brochure about the Blue Lagoon as if it’s Scripture.

“It says the water is thirty-seven to thirty-nine degrees Celsius.”

“That means nothing to me,” Bess says.

“It’s about a hundred Fahrenheit,” Ransom pipes up.

“That’s a hot tub,” Wes admits with a nod.

“That’s a volcanic hot tub,” Nettie corrects. “A completely different experience.”

Bess shrugs. “Volcanic hot tub—regular hot tub. My thighs do not care about the geology of the situation. They’re going to jiggle whether Iceland likes it or not.”

I’m only half listening. My brain keeps replaying Marina’s face when she accused me of spying on her. The hurt in her voice. The way she looked at me as if I’d betrayed her.

Maybe I did. Maybe pushing for answers when someone clearly doesn’t want to give them is its own kind of betrayal. Maybe all of these investigations as of late have made me immune to what a real friendship entails.

The bus rounds a corner and there it is.

Below us, a pool of impossible turquoise glows against the dark volcanic sprawl, so bright it looks lit from beneath. Steam rises off the milky water in ghostly columns, and even from this distance I can make out bodies drifting along without a single care between them.

The facility to the left is all modern glass and dark wood, somehow managing to look both futuristic and ancient at the same time.

“Oh my word,” Bess breathes. “This place is stunning!”

“It really is,” I say. “Like someone spilled a vat of Tiffany-blue paint into a volcano and called it a spa day.”

We file off the bus into icy air that holds the scent of sulfur and minerals. The Blue Lagoon is basically organized chaos. Tourists speaking a dozen languages, sleek Scandinavian design, and signs pointing in every direction. We check in at a counter staffed by an efficient Icelandic woman who hands us waterproof wristbands and rattles off instructions so fast I catch maybe half of them.