Page 1 of Cruel Christmas Cruise (Cruising Through Midlife: Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries #12)
THE VICTIM
FOUR HOURS FROM NOW...
I survey the Emerald Lounge like a queen inspecting her court, and what a sorry court it is.
The Carrington Academy fortieth class reunion is in full swing, and I’ve never seen a more pathetic parade of denial and surgical intervention in my life.
Crystal chandeliers drip overhead like frozen tears, their light catching on the gaudy gold tinsel wrapped around every available surface.
Someone—probably that insufferable Tinsley from the ship’s decorating committee—has gone absolutely mad with the Christmas theme.
Giant nutcrackers stand guard at each entrance, their dead eyes watching us all, while a tree that could rival Rockefeller Center’s dominates the room, its branches heavy with ornaments bearing our old school crest.
I sip my Holly Berry Special and hide my smirk behind the rim. The women have clearly raided every Botox clinic from here to Beverly Hills.
Holly Cresswell floats by with her face pulled so tight she could bounce quarters off her cheeks, while Ginger Garland’s lips have been inflated to the point of obscenity.
And the men? Oh, they’re trying just as hard with their hair plugs and spray tans. Alec Shepherd’s humanitarian award photos are his profile picture on every platform—I happen to know he donated exactly the minimum required for the photo op.
They think they’ve made it. They think their McMansions and trophy spouses have erased who they really are. But I know better. I know everything .
Like how Holly’s perfect husband didn’t just drop dead of a heart attack. Or how Alec’s empire is built on quicksand and cooked books. And sweet, innocent Ginger? If these people knew what really happened on that cliff five years ago...
I take another long pull of my cocktail, savoring the bite of cranberry and vodka.
My phone buzzes with another notification—my latest post just hit a hundred thousand likes in under an hour.
By tomorrow, I’ll have twice that, and by Christmas?
Well, let’s just say this floating reunion is about to become the most explosive content my ten million followers have ever seen.
The music swells—some dreadful instrumental version of “Jingle Bells”—and I smile as I watch them all pretend they’re not terrified of me.
They should be.
In ten days, every skeleton in every designer closet will be dragged into the light.
What’s a felony or two among friends, after all? This room is practically a maximum-security prison’s worth of white-collar criminals in Armani.
I drain my glass in one final gulp, already planning my next exposé. But something feels—wrong.
My throat tightens.
The room tilts sideways, and the chandeliers blur into streaks of light.
My fingers claw at my neck as I stumble forward. The glass slips from my hand, shattering against the marble floor in a spray of red that looks disturbingly like blood.
As darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision, I see them—all of them—turning to stare. And in that moment, I realize someone has finally beaten me at my own game.
The last thing I hear is a woman screaming, and then nothing at all.