Page 66 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

Freya is even more striking up close. She’s easily five-nine, with waist-length black hair woven into braids so intricate they must have taken an hour and a blood oath. Heavy black eyeliner, bold red lipstick, silver hoops climbing up both ears. She’s wearing black leather pants and a dramatic cape that billows in the air-conditioning, along with enough silver jewelry to fund a modest Viking raid. She’s what every woman in this room thinks she looks like in Viking costume. And she’s somehow found the one air vent in the room that doubles as a personal wind machine. The sunset photo shoot doesn’t know what it’s missing.

I won’t lie, I’m a little jealous.

“How are you doing?” I ask, stopping beside her. “I’m Trixie. I think we met briefly on embarkation day.”

She turns, and her whole face brightens. “The art teacher! Yes, I remember. You teach on the ship, right?”

“I do. Acrylics, watercolors, the occasional disaster with oil paints.”

“I teach high school art,” she says, and her demeanor shifts, less dramatic Viking queen, more exhausted educator who has seen one too many teenagers eat paste. “Freshmen through seniors. It’s exactly as chaotic as it sounds.”

“Oh my goodness, high schoolers? You’re braver than I am.”

“Or more desperate for a paycheck.” She grins, and it transforms her face from intimidating to downright approachable. “But I love it. Most days. When they’re not using the pottery wheels as drum sets.”

I like her already. This keeps happening with my suspects. It’s beginning to be a problem. One of these days I’m going to end up exchanging Christmas cards with a killer, and I’ll probably compliment the stationery.

Magnus circles her slowly, studying her with open appreciation. “She wears armor even when she’s vulnerable. Fascinating. Armor is only interesting for what’s underneath.”

I shoot him a look that says down, boy. I lean against the window frame and pay attention to the suspect at hand. “So how are you really holding up? With everything that’s happened?”

Freya’s smile drops away. “You mean Astrid?”

“Yeah.”

She falls silent for a moment, her fingers spinning one of her silver rings. “It’s surreal. One minute she was making a toast, the next she was gone. I keep expecting her to walk into these events and start bossing everyone around.”

“Were you two close?”

“Not really. Astrid and I clashed a lot.” She laughs without a drop of humor in it. “I don’t do well with people who need to be in charge, and Astrid needed to be in charge the way the rest of us need oxygen.”

“I noticed something at the Queen declarations,” I say. “The second someone mentioned loyalty, you took a step back. Sometimes our feet vote before the rest of us do. You seemed put off by the idea.”

Her eyes sharpen as she sizes me up. “You’re observant.”

“It’s sort of an occupational hazard.”

“Because you’re married to the head of security or because you’re an art teacher?”

“Both. We notice details other people miss.”

She turns back to the ocean, and I can see her weighing something, deciding how much to share, if anything. I keep my mouth shut and let the silence do the fishing. Silence is criminally underrated as an interrogation tool. It’s free, it’s legal, and it pairs beautifully with a salmon pinwheel.

“Look,” she says finally. “I’m not going to pretend I liked Astrid. I didn’t. She was controlling and judgmental, and she had this way of making you feel you were never quite good enough for her precious book club.”

“But?” I prompt.

“But I didn’t kill her.” Freya’s voice is firm. “Even though I’m pretty sure half the club thinks I did.”

“Why would they think that?”

She laughs, and there’s an edge to it. “Because I had a screaming match with her two hours before she died. In front of about a dozen witnesses. I guess you could say I wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Magnus leans in. “She confesses freely. Either she’s innocent or she’s very clever. I’ve always found clever far more attractive. And far more dangerous. Ideally both, and in leather.”

I don’t even glance his way. But I happen to agree with him—on most of it at least.

“What were you arguing about?” I ask gently.