Page 29 of Transatlantic Terror Cruise

“More like cobras at a snake divorce court,” Nettie adds. “I haven’t heard that kind of language since my second husband found out about the man who was about to become my third husband. Or was it when my third husband found out about my fourth?”

“It could have been the fifth and the sixth.” Bess shrugs at her bestie and they both look genuinely perplexed by the matrimonial mathematics.

Ransom offers a sober nod my way despite my rainbow glow. “And I discovered Elvie has been making some interesting transfers from their joint account.”

“Wow.” I lean back and inspect this gorgeous demigod among us. “Who told you that?”

“I can’t reveal my sources.” He winks my way. “And I’ve yet to confirm it. So far it’s still a rumor.”

“But if it’s true…” I blow out a breath. “It could mean that she’s been funding more than just her cosmetics empire.”

Bess nods. “Like a hitman.”

“Or a hitwoman,” Nettie counters.

Wes tips his head. “Maybe Brad found out about her money moves and threatened to expose her in some way?”

Nettie holds up her drink. “Maybe Brad kicked puppies for fun on Friday nights and that’s why he had to go.”

Bess rolls her eyes. “You would root for the killer.”

Nettie turns my way. “I’m always rooting for you, kid.”

A river of words gets lodged in my throat, but before I can say another sound, my face begins to itch.

“Ouch,” I say, giving my cheek a quick scratch.

“You can say that again,” Bess says, rubbing her hands over her own cheeks. “Why does it suddenly feel as if I’ve got a third-degree sunburn?”

Nettie lets out an ear-piercing yowl. “And why do I suddenly feel as if my face wants to break out in fur? We didn’t opt for the werewolf formula, did we?”

“I hope not,” I say as my face starts to feel like one large blister. I look at Ransom. “I’d hate to start borrowing your razor so soon in our marriage—especially for my own beard.”

My face starts to burn like I’ve been slapped by a jellyfish, while both Bess and Nettie continue to paw and claw at their cheeks as if they’re trying to remove their skin.

“It looks like we’re not the only ones who feel as if we’re being attacked by fire ants,” I say, nodding over to another group of women with colorful faces, all of whom are twitching and itching with the best of them.

“Whatever is in that makeup, I think I’m allergic to it,” Nettie shouts.

“I think it’s time for a shower,” I shout as well as if trying to talk over the pain. “I’d better head back to the cabin before my face matches my lipstick. Although at this point, that might be an improvement—despite the fact it’s blue.”

“Need help with that shower?” Ransom offers with a devilish curve taking over his lips.

“From you?” I muse. “Always.”

We scramble to our feet but not before scooping up our cinnamon rolls.

We’re no fools.

As we hurry toward our respective cabins, I can’t help but wonder—is this reaction just another cosmetic casualty, or did Elvie Whipple just try to add three more names to her body count? Or judging by the gaggles of itching women we bypass, another hundred bodies.

Either way, I have a feeling this case is about to get messier than mascara caught in the rain.

Although first thing is first—a delicious shower with Ransom to help wash away the sins of the world. Unlike the sins of the killer.

Whoever stabbed Brad Whipple in the back won’t have their sins absolved until they’ve served their time—as in a life term behind bars.

Brad Whipple can’t enjoy his freedom on earth anymore.

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