Chapter 2

The Scarlet Letter

Spencer grabbed a napkin from the table and began dabbing at the coffee stain on her jacket as she hurried to the washroom. So much of her attention was directed at the futile attempt to get the blots out that she completely failed to notice a sign on the washroom door that might have deterred her from pushing through it.

She hastily turned on the faucet and wetted a corner of the napkin before dabbing again at the now-settling stain. It did not seem to work. She exhaled exasperatedly, realising that the only way to remove the horrid stain now would be several cycles with high-grade detergent which would very likely damage the fabric beyond repair. She threw her hands in the air and rolled her eyes in defeat. Then, as Spencer turned off the faucet, she heard it, a barely audible singing voice emanating from one of the stalls, which had been drowned out by the sound of running water a moment ago.

Better lock it in your pocket, taking this one to the grave…

Nervously she took a step towards the source of the music. It was the very last stall next to the wall. The door was partially closed but not locked.

"Hello?" Spencer called loudly as she continued to approach the stall. "Is anybody there?"

The only answer that came was more music.

If I show you then I know you won't tell what I said…

Laying a trembling hand on the door, she pushed it open and let out a piercing scream. Lying sprawled across the toilet seat was the twisted and lifeless body of Mrs Montgomery, holding in her hand an iPod that obnoxiously continued to play the song. Spencer ran.

'Cause two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

When she pulled the washroom door open to escape, all the colour drained from her cheeks as she saw what she should have seen coming in. Drawn in Jungle Red lipstick across the ivory door was a colossal letter A.

"Help! Help!" she screamed loudly as she sprinted from the Windjammer Café, casting her eyes wildly looking for someone, anyone, who could help. But there was nobody to be found. She could not see her friends or security guards or waiters or even hot muscular surfer boys as she raced through Deck Twelve. Where was everybody?

As she turned a sharp corner towards the stairs down to Deck Eleven, she crashed into someone and fell backward flat on her back. The other person walked forward and bent over to look at her. He was a short greasy man dressed in raggedy clothes that looked like they had never been acquainted with the washing machine. She could smell his foul breath as he grinned at her, baring his rotting teeth.

"'Ello, Poppet," he said in a hoarse voice.