Chapter 3 - The Crew Member Grant Forgot to BuyI thought Evelyn had lost her mind.
Grant’s hand rested at the small of my back.
Three days earlier, that touch had made me feel safe.
Now I could think only of how easily the same hand could push.
The Caribbean glittered under the afternoon sun.
There was no visible coastline.
The Solstice moved through deep blue water like a floating palace, all polished teak, white leather, chrome, and glass.
My father had called it excessive when he booked it.
“It’s your honeymoon,” he had said. “Be excessive once.”
I wanted to cry thinking about him.
Richard Callahan had built Callahan Biomedical from one laboratory outside Boston into a global medical-device company.
He had spent my entire childhood teaching me never to confuse money with security.
“Money attracts good people,” he used to say. “It also gives bad people patience.”
I had rolled my eyes at him.
Then I married Grant.
Grant squeezed my waist.
“You’re quiet.”
“Still nauseous.”
His expression changed instantly to concern.
Perfect concern.
“You should take another pill.”
My stomach tightened.
“I already did.”
That was a lie.
Grant studied me.
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
For just a fraction of a second, his eyes sharpened.
Then the smile returned.
“Good.”
He kissed my temple.
“Rest. I want you feeling strong tonight.”
Strong enough to walk onto the deck.
Weak enough not to fight back.
I looked toward the crew.
Six people were visible.
Chef Marcello stood near the aft bar.
Two deckhands adjusted equipment near the stern.
A stewardess carried folded towels.
Chief engineer Luis Ortega disappeared below deck.
And Captain Reed stood above us on the bridge.
How many had Grant paid?
He had said the deck crew.
Maybe two.
Maybe all of them.
My phone showed no service.
The yacht Wi-Fi had mysteriously stopped working that morning.
I had complained about it at breakfast.
Grant had blamed the satellite.
Now I understood.
I needed another way to communicate.
And I needed evidence.
If I simply accused Grant, he could deny everything.
Worse, he could accelerate his plan.
So I did what my father had trained me to do during hostile negotiations.
I became boring.
Calm.
Predictable.
I let Grant bring me lunch.
I ate slowly.
When he offered water, I drank.
When he suggested another pill, I pretended to swallow it and tucked it beneath my tongue until I could spit it into a napkin.
At three-thirty, Grant went upstairs to make a “business call.”
There was no cell signal.
Which meant he was contacting someone by satellite phone.
Vanessa, perhaps.
I waited until he disappeared.
Then I walked toward the galley.
Chef Marcello barely looked up.
“Mrs. Holloway, you need something?”
His use of my married name made me flinch.
“Ginger tea.”
“Of course.”
While he prepared it, I studied him.
He had kind eyes.
Late fifties.
Italian accent.
He had worked aboard the yacht for twelve years, according to the brochure.
Could I trust him?
Before I decided, a woman entered.
“Your husband asked that you rest.”
It was Evelyn Shaw, the chief stewardess.
Forty-something.
Perfect posture.
Unreadable face.
“I’m getting tea.”
“I can bring it.”
“I need to walk.”
Her gaze remained on me a second too long.
Then she smiled.
“Of course.”
I left.
I couldn’t risk speaking in front of her.
I returned to our suite and locked the door.
First, I searched Grant’s luggage.
Nothing.
Then his nightstand.
Nothing.
Then the desk.
A leather folder sat beneath several travel documents.
Inside were copies of our marriage license, insurance forms, and a document bearing my signature.
Except I had never signed it.
My blood went cold.
It was a revised beneficiary designation for the Callahan Legacy Trust.
The document claimed that in the event of my death after marriage, Grant would receive controlling rights to my personal distribution.
I knew enough about my grandmother’s trust to understand one thing.
That document was useless without multiple approvals.
Unless someone inside the trust administration had helped him.
Grant’s plan was bigger than a yacht accident.
I photographed every page.
Then I noticed something strange.
One signature belonged to my father’s longtime attorney.
Martin Voss.
I stared at it.
Martin had known me since I was six years old.
There was no possible way he would authorize this.
Either his signature had been forged—
—or Martin was involved.
A knock sounded.
“Claire?”
Grant.
I shoved everything back into the folder.
“Just a second.”
“Why is the door locked?”
Think.
I grabbed a towel, turned on the shower, and unlocked the door wearing my robe.
Grant stood outside.
“Everything okay?”
“I was showering.”
His gaze moved past me into the room.
I stepped aside deliberately.
“Looking for someone?”
He laughed.
“No.”
Then he reached up and tucked wet hair behind my ear.
Except my hair wasn’t wet.
His smile faded slightly.
I had forgotten to wet it.
“I got out before washing it,” I said quickly. “I felt dizzy.”
Concern returned.
“Sit down.”
He guided me toward the bed.
The same bed where he had held me the previous night.
He brought water.
And two pills.
“I think these will help.”
I held out my palm.
“Thank you.”
Grant watched.
I swallowed.
Or appeared to.
When he finally left, I spat both tablets into my hand.
Then I stared at the closed door.
He no longer trusted me completely.
That meant my nine hours had just become fewer.
At four-fifteen, I found my first ally.
She found me first.
I had gone to the lower deck pretending to look for another towel when a hand caught my wrist and pulled me into the laundry room.
I nearly screamed.
Evelyn shut the door.
“Quiet.”
My back hit the wall.
She whispered, “Did you hear them?”
I stared at her.
She already knew.
My voice barely worked.
“Who?”
“Your husband and Captain Reed.”
For several seconds I said nothing.
Then Evelyn reached into her uniform pocket.
She pulled out a small satellite emergency beacon.
“My brother is Coast Guard,” she said. “If we trigger this, rescue authorities get our coordinates.”
“Then trigger it.”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because Captain Reed gets the same emergency notification on the bridge.”
My stomach dropped.
“He’d know.”
“Yes.”
“And if Grant knows I know—”
“He won’t wait until midnight.”
I looked at Evelyn.
“Why are you helping me?”
Her jaw tightened.
“Because Grant Holloway thinks he paid the entire crew.”
“He didn’t?”
“No.”
“Who did he pay?”
“Reed. Two deckhands.”
“And you?”
“He tried.”
She reached into another pocket.
This time she handed me a tiny audio recorder.
“I said yes.”
I stared at it.
“You took his money?”
“I needed him to believe I was loyal.”
My fingers closed around the recorder.
“What exactly did he ask you to do?”
Evelyn’s eyes darkened.
“At eleven-forty-five tonight, I’m supposed to make sure the starboard security cameras are offline.”
“That’s where he’s going to—”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“How much time do we have?”
Evelyn checked her watch.
“Eight hours.”
Then she said something I did not expect.
“If we want you to survive, we don’t stop his plan.”
May you like
I stared at her.
“We let him start it.”
