I stared at a tacky, dark red smudge on my index finger.
My brain spit out Does Not Compute messages.
Concentrate.
Figure out this dab of dark red and the world would be okay. Sure, sure. That would do it.
Figure this out. Logically. Step by step.
I had nail polish on my nails from the spa that first day, not to mention nicely shaped ends and less visible cuticle, and you might reasonably think that made spotting red on my fingers unremarkable.
But I opted for what’s known as an American tip polish. With the ends painted a less shocking white than the better-known French manicure (really, those things could be used to direct traffic at night) and clear polish over the beds of my nails. That made the red remarkable and wrong.
Strawberry preserves from breakfast? Not the right color. Plus, I’d washed my hands before leaving the cabin.
I smeared at it with the pad of my other index finger. Not the right consistency, either.
It looked like…
I brought my finger to my nose and sniffed, catching a faint, metallic scent.
…and smelled like…
Blood.
I closed my eyes and thought.
What can I say? I’m not the screaming type.
Procrastinating type, yes. Screaming, no.
Okay, also the denial type.
Instead of acting, I reviewed where I’d been since leaving my cabin.
The encounter with the violinist.
But we hadn’t touched, I didn’t recall any sign of blood around her, and her hands had left no trace when she’s put one against the wall to balance and the other to her face to stop tears.
I’d come up the stairs, stopped at the buffet where, yes, all right, I’d picked up a cookie, maybe two, for later.
On the way in and out, I’d received the obligatory squirts of the antiseptic/antibacterial stuff they dish out by the gallon at entry and exit of each dining venue. No red on my hands.
I found a deck chair, deposited my things on it.
Again, no sign of blood.
I’d started walking.
Three and a half circuits, being passed by joggers and other walkers, then occasionally passing a greater laggard, all while making no contact with person, railing, or other object.
Except this figure whose towel-wrapped shoulder had felt … odd.
It was not moving.
At all.
My breath suddenly hurt my chest and throat.
No screaming, but should I call for help?
That would draw a crowd.
What if there were clues that would be obliterated?
Clues to what?
Not going to think about that right now.
Not.
Going.
To.
I turned my head, watching the intermittent stream of joggers and walkers. Unfortunately, from where I stood and with the direction they were moving, I saw their backs after they’d passed me.
As I stood there, not recognizing anyone’s back, a thought crept in. Not precisely about what I was not thinking about, but close to it.
Some people I might spot would not be good choices to call over to this towel-wrapped figure because of possible, uh, conflicts of interest. Assuming someone was responsible for the person who might be Leah no longer breathing.
That’s blood on your finger, toots. People who stop breathing in their sleep seldom have blood on their shoulders.
That voice in my head was getting old. If Aunt Kit had wanted to come along on this cruise, she could have darned well come instead of hitchhiking in my brain.
After a few minutes of standing stock still, watching unknown backs stream past, I would have accepted even the individual who had the absolute biggest conflict of interest. In other words, whoever might be responsible for nothing under the towels moving.
No, maybe not.
Besides, how would I know that person was the one with the biggest conflict of interest. And he or she might do something that prevented the, uh, conflict of interest from ever being exposed and then I’d be responsible for someone getting away with—
“Bob!”
Not a screamer, but I’m a hefty shouter and that shout turned several heads around … including the one my brain had recognized and communicated to my mouth to shout to while the rest of my mental power dithered about conflict of interest.
He peeled away from the flow of joggers and runners, curling back toward me.
“What’s wrong, Sheila?”
Where did I start?
Not by saying aloud the question drumming in my head:
Did Maya finally crack?