Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

Nothing kills a joke’s momentum like overexplanation. Juliette did get a couple of laughs, but I caught one passenger looking aghast at us, as if horrified we dared joke about something so crucial as fuel quantities.

Juliette was saved from any further humiliation by a jolt of the carriage, just violent enough that those standing rocked and gripped the chair backs nearest to them. This was accompanied by the metallic groan of one thousand four hundred tons waking up. The scenery started to roll horizontally past the windows.

“That’s my cue to wrap it up, I suppose. Just one caution—you’re likely to see a bit of smoke occasionally. It might be in the distance, but it might be closer than you’d like. Don’t panic. These bushfires are natural, though, to be fair, deliberately lit.” This drew a little gasp, which he’d clearly hoped for, and he grinned. “Believe it or not, our little arsonist is a bird. A kite bird, to be precise. They hunt down bushfires and pick up flaming sticks, which they fly over and drop in dry patches of grass. Once the area is aflame, they catch the fleeing rodents. So if you see fire, unless it’s on board, nothing to worry about!” Aaron gestured toward the restaurant carriage. “Breakfast is served, at your convenience.”

The hungriest were up quickly, but I was happy to sit for a minute. Now that we’d set off, the spell of the journey had taken hold of me slightly. Watching the chicken-wire fences of Berrimah terminal trundle past, replaced by pristine blue sky and vibrant monsoon-season-flourishing greenery, underpinned by the click-clack of the wheels rolling over the tracks beneath us and piping-hot coffee in hand, I had to admit to feeling the magic. I felt, well, posh.

In fact, I was so charmed, it took me at least another fifteen minutes to remember to ask Juliette what exactly she was hiding from me about Wyatt Lloyd.

Chapter 6

“One star?!”

I almost flung the phone across the table, as if it were a hot coal superheated by the incriminating internet browser I had just opened. On-screen was the Goodreads page for my book, Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone, where a new review had been posted. The review had a little red star. Just one.

“One bloody star?! Where the hell is he?”

“Ern,” Juliette said gently, “I think you might be overreacting.”

I looked around. A few heads had turned from their breakfast at my outburst. The restaurant carriage was fitted out with a dozen or so four-seater booths with flip-down seats. Pristine white tablecloths and polished silver cutlery glinted in the shafts of sunlight shining through the panel windows, and jade-green strip lights lined the roof. I spied Henry McTavish dining in the far corner with Wyatt and—and this incensed me further—Simone. They were all leaning forward, shoulder blades hunched like vultures’ wings. That’s a posture exclusively reserved for scheming.

I made to stand, but Juliette put a hand on my arm and gave a pointed cough. I followed her gaze and was surprised to see my left hand had curled around a knife. It was more of a reflex, grasping something nearby as I went to stand, but it surprised me enough that I dropped it with a clatter.

“A bit of the old Cunningham family blood still in me,” I said with as much lightness as I could muster. I put the phone down, and Juliette flipped it screen-to-tablecloth so the red star wasn’t staring me in the face. She needn’t have bothered; it was seared into the back of my eyelids.

Today’s date. A single red star. One word underneath: Ghastly. Author of the review: Henry McTavish.

Wyatt’s apology ran through my memory: I mean, it’s not polite. But it’s not really something we can police, you agree?

“Maybe his finger slipped,” Juliette suggested.

“Ghastly is a seven-letter word.”

“I meant the star rating.”

“So he’s capable enough to log in, type in the name of my book, pull up the page, enter the review field, and type his review, and then he fumbles on hitting the five-star button?” I stared back at McTavish’s table. What the hell were they talking about? How could my agent buddy up to them after this?

“Ern?” This time Juliette snapped her fingers in front of my nose.

Cynthia heard the snap and interpreted it as a summons, which made us feel both classist and apologetic as we ordered our pancakes and scrambled eggs.

“Sorry,” I said, after we were alone again. “I’m just . . . processing. Has it been up long?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I only saw it in our cabin, just before we left for breakfast. I didn’t want to freak you out. I wasn’t, like, deliberately hiding it.” Her lips tightened in an appeal for understanding. I remembered her telling me to forget about petitioning McTavish.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”