Deadly Fate (Krewe of Hunters #19)(24)

Her mom never said I told you so. She just worried about her. She hadn’t been so bad before the events on the Destiny; in fact, she had loved coming aboard the ships Clara had worked on for the last several years.

She wished, of course, that she worked at a local theater—or in New York. She had gone to an audition in New York, as her mom had suggested, and found herself in a cast on a ship. But she had loved sailing and kept at it.

She had great friends. Like Ralph and Larry and Simon. And Alexi, who she missed terribly. But Alexi was in love now, and Clara was delighted for her. Agent Jude McCoy was great; the two were wonderful together.

It was just that Alexi wasn’t here.

She shivered suddenly, then wondered why. Not that it was a strange thing to do, with what she had stumbled on that day, but she knew that wasn’t the reason.

She was shivering because of Kimball. Something about him made her feel slimy. His flipping hand had seemed slimy!

He hadn’t come on to her rudely. He hadn’t really come on to her. But she knew he intended to do so.

Maybe she’d been the only woman in the room who had appealed to him. Becca Marle was cute enough, but she was a husky girl and didn’t dress in any way to enhance herself. She kept her hair short and boyish. It was probably best for her work, and Becca might just love working sound the same way Clara loved the theater.

And she truly loved the theater—being in it, seeing others in it, musical theater, comedy, drama, anything. It was good; loving theater had made her a fairly sensible and strong person. First, the don’t call us, we’ll call you element meant she knew how to be rejected without taking it personally.

And that had helped in life when her last—actually, her only!—serious relationship had ended. Steve Jenkins had chosen a way of life over her, and she’d seen it and ended their relationship.

She sat up restlessly.

Right now, she even wished Steve was with her. He hadn’t been a bad person—he just hadn’t had any ambition in life other than hitting the clubs, drinking and sometimes taking his flirting a little too far. He was a talented actor who had lost too many good jobs by not being able to get out of bed in the morning. At first, his grin, his casual attitude and his charm had all swept her away. And then...

Then she’d paid the rent one too many times, picked him up outside a bar one too many times, and she’d realized that they both wanted different things and it wasn’t going to change. She’d headed to New York City, gone to a number of auditions, and been called for a touring company aboard a ship.

She’d been sailing ever since. Her brother asked her once if she was trying to sail away from herself.

Clara rose. She’d shed her jeans and sweater but not her tank top or underwear; she wished she had a pair of her flannel pajamas, but while she’d found toothpaste, soap, shampoo, razors and anything a guest might have needed—including condoms!—in the bathroom, there were no nightclothes. She was, in truth, just really grateful for the toothbrush.

She found a flannel robe with The Alaska Hut embroidered over the pocket. Slipping it on, she cracked open her door. She didn’t recognize the policeman in the hall, but she assumed he was the next shift. He smiled at her and tipped his hat.

“Are you all right, miss?” he asked.

“Fine, thank you. I just thought I’d make myself some tea,” Clara told him. She hesitated. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

He smiled. “Thank you very much. I’ll be on watch here in the hall. I just came on—don’t need anything. You’re safe, you know.”

“Yes. Thanks.”

She realized that she’d been unnerved and horrified—but not really worried about her own safety. With everyone telling her that she was safe, she was getting worried!

Maybe she’d put a shot of whiskey in her tea.

The kitchen would have made a great advertisement for every new appliance out there. One machine made almost every form of coffee or espresso known to man. Another made customized fizzy drinks.

One just heated water—but a nearby box offered the widest assortment of tea she had ever seen.

She chose a chamomile and set it and the cup in the proper slots in the machine and folded her arms to wait the sixty seconds it would take.

That’s when the unease settled over her—and she was certain she was being watched.

Kimball—it was creepy Marc Kimball! she thought.

But it was a different kind of feeling.

She looked over to the log-framed kitchen doorway.

She was grateful she wasn’t holding a cup of scalding water; she would have dropped it.

She almost screamed.

But it was as it had been earlier; she was too stunned, too bone-deep terrified, to make a sound.

Amelia Carson was standing there. She was wearing jeans and a fluffy pink parka, the hood over her dark hair. She reached out a hand, as if she were trying to touch Clara.

“Please,” she said simply.

Clara blinked.

It had to be a joke; the whole thing was still a joke, and somehow they had gotten Jackson Crow in on it. She was being filmed. Amelia hadn’t really been dead in the snow...

She heard a sob.

And then, she heard the officer in the hallway call out to her. “Miss? Everything all right?”

The vision before her evaporated. Clara didn’t look away.