Page 74 of Viking Vengeance Cruise

I tip my head her way. “I’ve never heard a more accurate assessment of myself.”

The Velvet Vikings have scattered across the fortress in velvet-clad clusters, fifty book lovers storming Finland one dramatic photo at a time.

I spot Poppy near a historic building, looking elegant in a camel-colored coat and tall boots over dark jeans, helping some of the older members navigate the uneven cobblestones.

Freya’s at a cannon platform, posing with all the drama she can afford while someone takes photos with her phone. And Sienna is breaking away from the group, heading toward a more isolated section of the fortress walls.

Alone.

That’s my favorite number when it comes to my suspects.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Bess.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to have a word with a certain someone about a certain homicide that’s yet unsolved.”

“Want backup?”

I glance around and wince. “I think Nettie’s about to climb inside a cannon. You’d better supervise.”

Bess looks over at Nettie, who is indeed eyeing a particularly large artillery piece with disturbing interest. “Oh my word. Yes. Go. Interrogate. I’ll handle the man-eating menace.”

We all have our callings. Hers just comes in a muumuu.

I follow Sienna across a small bridge connecting two sections of the fortress as the wind lashes my hair into my face and makes my eyes water.

The Baltic stretches gray and endless on all sides of us, and I can see Helsinki in the distance with its spires and modern architecture and Scandinavian tidiness. Even their skyline looks organized. I bet nobody over there has a junk drawer.

Magnus falls in beside me and keeps pace. “The little teacher flees again.” He strokes his beard and lingers over the words just long enough to make them sound filthy. “She’s had practice, that one.”

“Coming from a man who’s spent a decade fleeing the name Gerald, that’s rich.”

“We’re discussing her flaws, not mine.”

“She’s not fleeing. She’s walking.” At least I hope she’s not fleeing. I can hardly walk in these shoes, let alone break into a full sprint.

“Purposefully,” he counters. “Away from others. That’s fleeing.”

“Or she just wants some quiet time to herself.” And me, if I’m lucky.

“Or she’s guilty.” He says it flatly, without any of his usual theater, and that stops me more than the words do. Magnus performs everything. When he stops performing, I listen.

I don’t respond because I’m too busy climbing a set of stone steps that lead to a section of ramparts overlooking the sea. Also because he might be right, and I hate it when the dead man scores a point.

Sienna’s standing at the wall, staring out at the water, a quilted tote bag hugged to her chest. She looks small out here. Small, and sad, and thoroughly wrung out, and my chest pinches at the sight of her. Whatever she’s carrying inside of her, she’s been carrying it alone.

Somewhere on this fortress built to withstand an invasion, a killer is walking free—and I’m done letting them hide behind grief and good manners.

CHAPTER 18

The wind whips across the fortress ramparts, carrying salt spray and the threat of rain.

Suomenlinna can’t seem to decide whether it’s a military stronghold or a picnic ground, so it’s committed to both, and I respect that in an island.

Sienna Caldwell stands at the stone wall overlooking the Baltic. Her frizzy auburn hair escapes its ponytail in wild spirals, and she’s hugging her arms tight, bracing against a wind that seems to have personal business with her. Behind us, the Velvet Vikings are scattered across the fortress, taking countless selfies with dramatic poses, and their laughter drifts along on the breeze.

Magnus hovers nearby, uncharacteristically quiet, watching Sienna with an expression I can’t read. And that’s saying something, considering the man usually broadcasts his feelings at Viking volume, which is to say loud and inappropriate.