Kyra drove up island, following the barks of her GPS to Menemsha. She remembered Tarek pointing it out to her on one of their drives. She turned off the main road, and the little fishing village came into view. Cottages and outbuildings were sprinkled along the harbor. Commercial fishing vessels were docked and tied along the decks. Further out, moored in the deeper waters, were only a few pleasure boats, including a large ketch with Neamhnaid painted on its navy-blue hull in a bright, almost iridescent, pearl-white paint.
Kyra parked and made her way to the marina. Her hair whipped around her face. The village was deserted. The only activity came from the cormorants as they pierced the water’s surface in search of fish. The buildings along the water’s edge that supported Menemsha’s fishing industry—boat repair, fish packaging, fishmongers, a filling station. All were shut up. A carved wooden sign hung above a takeaway clam shack’s order window. Closed. It banged against the shingles in the wind. The increasing cloud cover cast the little village in shadow, giving it the air of abandonment. Kyra rubbed away the goosebumps on her arms.
Chase said he’d hidden the gun in the family’s boathouse. She stood at the edge of the marina. There, at the far end of the dock, beyond the fishing boats, were a few small, gray cedar-shingled buildings. One was decorated with old nets and once-colorful buoys, now faded from the salt and sun. A ragged American flag flapped from a pole on the roof. Kyra walked over to the cluster of boathouses. Little more than sheds, really. A plaque was nailed to the door of the third one. Hawthorn. This is it.
A padlock hung from the door. Kyra cast furtive glances up and down, checking she wasn’t seen. She used the combination Chase had given her. The lock sprang open. She unlatched it, pulled the door open, and stepped inside.
The interior was small and, to maximize space, the Hawthorns had erected free-standing shelving units. He said he hid it in the shelves in the back. Because of the shelves full of equipment, she couldn’t see the back of the room. Careful not to disturb the items on the floor, she walked around the shelves to the back of the shed.
The back was just as crammed with gear. Extra sails were tied and stowed. Ropes were coiled in piles on the floor. Fishing rods stood propped against a wall. Kyra searched the shelves for the gun. She pushed aside buckets of netting, gas canisters, deflated beach balls, and moldy towels. Where is it? She rolled her shoulders against her growing apprehension. I should have called Tarek. She closed her eyes, anticipating what he’d say to her when he found out what she’d done. Like The Island Pearl but so much worse.
She bent down to search beneath a stack of grimy life jackets. Her foot connected with the side of a metal pail, and it scooted along the floor, hitting the fishing rods. They crashed to the ground.
“Fucking hell.” She squatted down to pick up the mess.
She stretched for a rod.
Something hard and cold pressed against the base of her skull. Kyra froze.
“Get. Up.” a voice growled.
Kyra inched to a standing position instinctively holding her hands up at shoulder height. She hadn’t heard the door open. Hadn’t heard anyone enter.
“I’m sorry. I was just borrowing some fishing things.” Kyra shifted to turn around.
Her assailant rammed her shoulder with the butt of the gun, and she slammed into the wall.
“Don’t fucking move,” a man snarled.
Kyra tried to keep her voice calm. “I won’t. I’m sorry.”
“You nosy bitch.” He sneered and pushed her against the wall.
She felt his hot breath on her ear.
“You couldn’t just stay out of our fucking business, could you?”
Kyra swallowed. She recognized the man’s voice.
“Brody, please,” she pleaded, her voice shaking. “Please, put the gun down.”
He pushed her again. Hard. Kyra’s cheek struck rough wood, and she cried out. Brody pressed his body against her, pushing her into the wall. She went rigid.
“Keep your fucking mouth shut.”
He yanked her arms behind her, and she let out a yelp. He’s going to kill me. Her mind went blank with terror. She barely registered her hands being bound behind her. He pulled the restraints tight, yanking on her shoulder. The sharp pain pierced through her panic, brought her back.
Come on, think! Think! Her law firm’s women’s safety presentation came back to her. Make your assailant acknowledge you’re a person. Use his name.
“Brody, please,” she whispered. “Brody, please let me go.”
He didn’t respond.
She let out a cry when he wrenched her against him. He half carried, half dragged her out of the boathouse and down the dock. He tossed her onto the floor of a small, dirty rowboat. She flopped on the metal hull and gasped, the wind knocked out of her. Brody jumped into the dinghy, tossing the wet spring lines on her. She tried to pull her legs under her to sit up, but he shoved her back down with his boot. The back of her skull struck the hull. Kyra saw stars.
“Move and I’ll put a bullet in your brain.” Brody turned and yanked on the outboard motor. Once. Twice. It growled to life.
Kyra felt the boat propel forward. Where are we going? Where’s he taking me?
“Brody, please. Please let me go.” She couldn’t see where they were going from the floor of the boat. “Brody, where are we going?”
He didn’t so much as glance at her.
She changed tactics. She made her voice commanding. “Brody, take me back right now. Detective Collins and Chase Hawthorn are expecting me. They will come looking for me,” she lied.
Brody scoffed, his eyes flicking from her to something beyond the boat. He guided the dinghy through the rocky surf. Frigid water splashed over the sides, soaking her clothes. Kyra clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.
He cut the engine, and the boat slowed. Kyra tried to sit up but was knocked back by a wave. Brody reached for the line and tied down the boat.
“Get up,” he growled and hoisted her to her feet. He heaved her over the side, and she collapsed against the transom of the Neamhnaid.
Brody yanked Kyra to her feet and pushed her toward the interior of the sailboat.
She twisted and kicked out at him. “Let me go,” she screamed.
He slapped her. Her head snapped back. She tasted blood on her lip.
“Shut the fuck up,” he howled, his face inches from hers.
He opened the door and shoved her through. Kyra tumbled down a flight of stairs and slammed to the floor.
She lay there, stunned, her heart and head pounding. The door clicked shut. Kyra rolled to her side. She tested her arms and legs, making sure nothing was broken. She tugged at the binds on her wrists, choking on her rising hysteria.
Calm down. I need to calm down.
She took a few deep breaths, trying to center herself. She bit into her cut lip, focusing on the sting.
I need to get my hands free.
She tested the binds. Gritting her teeth against the pain in her shoulder, she pulled her bound hands around her butt and under her legs, one at a time. With a little maneuvering, she was able to get her hands in front and pushed herself into a sitting position.
She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her phone. She stared at it, blinking. No service.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She bit back a sob.
The sailboat rocked, throwing her off-balance. Righting herself, she looked around the dark cabin. She got unsteadily to her feet, and the boat lurched, throwing her against the wall. Leaning into it for stability and using the flashlight on her phone, she found the light switch. She flipped it, and the room flooded with a warm light.
Kyra was in a sort of vestibule surrounded by darkened doorways. Sleeping quarters? A kitchen? She crept to the closest one and peered inside. A bedroom. Where’s the galley? She needed a knife, scissors, anything she could use to free her hands or as a weapon. She tried the room directly across. It was pitch black inside. She felt along the wall for the light switch and flipped it. She saw the body crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed, dark curls splayed out on the carpet.
“Charlie!”
She sucked in a breath and scrambled to her injured friend. Charlie was unconscious, bleeding from a nasty cut on her forehead.
“Charlie? Charlie, are you okay?” Kyra fell to her knees and pressed her hands to Charlie’s face. She shook her shoulders. “Charlie? Charlie, wake up.”
The other woman stirred. She moaned softly, and her eyelids fluttered.
“Charlie. Oh my god. Wake up. Wake up!” She shook her again.
“Grace?” Charlie muttered, her voice thick.
“No, it’s Kyra.”
“Kyra?” Charlie’s eyes slowly focused on Kyra’s face, then widened with recognition. “Kyra.” She grabbed for Kyra’s hands and swiveled her head around. “Where are we?” She tried to sit up.
“Wait, don’t move. Let me help you. Are you hurt?” Kyra helped Charlie into a sitting position, leaning her against the footboard. Charlie put her hand to her head and flinched.
“A man hit me,” she said. “I was supposed to meet Grace at L’Huître. I was early and wandering around.” Charlie shook her head like she was trying to clear it. “I went to see the horses. Adele and a man were there. I surprised them, and then… The man hit me.” Confusion and pain clouded her eyes. “Where are we?”
“We’re on the Hawthorns’ sailboat.”
“The sailboat? Why?”
“Listen to me.” Kyra grasped her hands. “Adele is having an affair with a Coast Guard officer named Brody McAllister. Brody brought me here, too.”
“But why? What’s going on?”
“I think they killed Brendan. And my dad.” Kyra’s voice was barely a whisper.
Charlie’s brow furrowed. “What? Why?” Her eyes went wide. She shook her head, as if trying to clear it. “What are you talking about?”
“Brendan and my father were investigating a bribery conspiracy. Wetun Energy is trying to buy the senator’s support for their offshore wind farm and using Brendan as a cover. After he and Ed died, someone close to the family has been trying to throw suspicion on Chase.”
Charlie didn’t look convinced. “That doesn’t make any sense.” Her voice cracked. “Is he going to kill us?”
“We’re going to get out of here.” Kyra didn’t answer her question. She was terrified she knew the answer. “Can you stand?”
Charlie nodded and got to her feet, clutching the side of the bed.
Kyra’s vision swam, either from the wild rocking of the boat, a concussion, or both. She pressed her bound hands to her eyes. Suddenly, there was a loud noise from above. Kyra yanked Charlie back against the wall.
“What the hell, Brody?” a woman’s voice shrieked from above. Adele. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“She was in the boathouse. She knows,” Brody yelled back. “I had to do something.”
“Knows what?” Adele’s voice came out like a snarl. “What could she possibly know?” Adele let out a string of curses. “Now what? What are we going to do with them?”
“We stick to the plan. We just leave earlier. Tonight. We have the money. We have the boat. We pack. We go. We’ll be in Cuba in a week. We go from there.”
“Jesus fucking christ, Brody,” Adele screeched.
Then there was silence.
“We need to get help. Do you have your phone?” Kyra whispered.
Charlie patted her jacket pockets. “It was in my purse. You?”
“No service.” She held up her hands. “I need to get free. Stay here?”
Charlie nodded, wrapped her arms around herself, and sank to the floor.
The galley was sparse but tidy. She checked the drawers and cabinets, searching for anything that might be useful. It wasn’t well stocked. There was almost no food and only a few bottles of water. Finally, in a drawer, she found a paring knife.
Kyra rushed back to Charlie and handed her the knife. “Can you cut the ropes?” She held out her hands. Charlie tried to saw through the binds.
“Hold still,” Charlie commanded, but her hands were shaking. The knife slipped.
“Ow,” Kyra hissed through her teeth and jerked back.
“Oh my god,” Charlie sobbed and dropped the knife.
“Try again. Please.”
Charlie picked up the knife. She took a steadying breath. After a few more swipes, the ropes fell away. Kyra pressed on her wrist to slow the bleeding.
“I’m sorry,” Charlie whispered.
“It’s not deep. I’ll be fine.”
Kyra led Charlie into the kitchen, where she found a towel. Charlie helped her tie it around her wrist. Kyra pointed to the bare cupboards. “They have no food. No water. They can’t leave without supplying the boat.”
Charlie followed her back to the bedroom.
“They were able to sneak us on the boat, but they can’t risk anyone seeing us while we’re in the harbor. There’s no way they can get rid of us without going out to sea, and they don’t have supplies. They can’t leave yet. We just need to bide our time until one or both of them leave. Then we escape.”
Charlie nodded and rested her head against Kyra’s shoulder. She shivered, and a few tears slid down her cheeks. Kyra stilled under the other woman’s weight and wrapped her arm around her. Charlie’s skin felt hot. Her face was pale, and her cheeks were flushed.
“Charlie,” Kyra whispered. “Do you feel okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” Charlie said, raising her chin. “Just tell me what we need to do.”
“Is there another way out?” Kyra asked.
Maybe we can make a swim for it? She wasn’t confident Charlie was strong enough, and by the way the boat was rocking, she could tell the waves were getting bigger. She clung to the bolted-down furniture to keep from being tossed around the cabin.
Kyra remembered something and her stomach sank. “Charlie, do you have your insulin?”
Charlie shook her head.
Fuck. Kyra kicked the bedpost. She needed to get help. “Stay here.”
Kyra searched the interior of the sailboat, checking the other cabin doors and compartments, looking for a radio, phone, something to communicate. She found the engine room behind the stairs, the bathroom, a locked door to a closet near the bow, but no exit or comms system.
She backtracked through the cabins to the stairs. She crept up to the door to the back deck and tested the handle. Locked. Kyra pressed her weight against it. It was made of a lightweight composite, intended to protect the inhabitants from the weather. She was sure she could break it down if she needed to, but she couldn’t overtake Brody and Adele. She pressed an ear to the door.
“We have to wait until they leave,” Kyra said and slid to the floor next to Charlie. She pulled the comforter from the bed and flung it over them.
The minutes passed slowly, and the rocking got wilder. She had to brace herself against the bed to keep from falling over. Kyra swallowed back nausea and closed her eyes. Something rumbled outside. Charlie grabbed her hand.
“Is that a motor?” Charlie whispered.
Kyra strained her ears. Could it be the dinghy’s outboard motor? She wasn’t sure. Kyra motioned for Charlie to stay and crept back up the stairs. She pressed her ear to the door. She didn’t hear voices, couldn’t make out any specific sound.
“Kyra?” Charlie called from the bottom of the stairs. In the dancing dim light, the sheen on Charlie’s cheeks, the greenish pallor of her face, was more prominent.
Charlie held on to either side of the stairwell. “Are they still on the boat?”
“I don’t know. I can’t hear them. How long have we been here?”
“I don’t know. It’s dark out. But it could just be the storm.”
Kyra swallowed. Storm? “There’s a storm?” Kyra’s eyes met Charlie’s.
Thunder erupted. The boat quaked.
Charlie gasped. Her fist flew to her mouth.
Kyra stifled a scream and grabbed the wall. “It’s okay. You hear me?” She was reassuring Charlie as much as herself. “We need to get off this boat. Now.” Kyra pushed her bodyweight against the door. It bowed. “I’m going to break it down.”
Charlie nodded, wringing her hands at the bottom of the stairs. Kyra stepped back and slammed her entire body against the door. It bucked but held.
Charlie scrambled up beside her.
“Together.” Kyra nodded. “On the count of three. One! Two! Three!” They rammed their bodies into the door. It shuddered but didn’t give.
“Again.” They threw their bodies against it. With a loud crack, the lock gave way. They tumbled through into the rain and onto the wet deck of the Neamhnaid.
Kyra grabbed a bench and pulled herself to a standing position. Charlie tried to stand but fell back.
“Charlie!” Kyra reached out to help her.
The sky splintered with lightning. The boat lurched. They gripped the rail to keep from being thrown.
“Oh. My. God.” The wind tore Charlie’s words from her lips. “They’ve cut the mooring!”
Kyra froze, stunned. Her gaze followed Charlie’s outstretched arm, pointing toward the now-distant shoreline. She searched for the little Menemsha harbor. Rain lashed down, blurring her vision.
“Stay there,” Kyra ordered and scrambled toward the Neamhnaid’s helm.
Free of its anchor, the boat rocked and rolled, thrown by the waves crashing into the hull on one side and over the rails on the other. Her soaked sneakers slipped on the teak decking slick with seawater and rain. She pulled herself hand over hand along the rails, gasping for air. Get to the steering column. Get to the radio. A loose sail whipped and snapped in the wind, missing Kyra’s head by inches. Rain pelted her face with such force it stung. Please, she begged. A sob bubbled out.
She pulled herself into the seat in front of the steering wheel. Her fingers ached with cold. Where’s the island? She swiveled her head around, looking for anything recognizable. But on all sides, all she saw was black, churning water merging with the dark, angry sky. She searched the dashboard. Radio?! Where’s the fucking radio?!
With a whimper of relief, she grabbed the handset and slammed her hands on the buttons. “Mayday! Mayday!” she screamed, her voice cracking.
Nothing.
Kyra pulled the handset away from her mouth, and gaped. A strangled sound escaped from her throat. The wire swung, unattached to the console. She swallowed back bile. The entire comms system had been ripped out.
She dropped the handset and punched the steering wheel with a horrified scream. She squatted down, cowering under the steering column, out of the onslaught of the rain. Kyra needed a plan. We have to get off this boat. She stared at the broken radio. Her heart thumped. I saw an engine room down there. If they could start the engine, they could get control of the boat. Drive it back? Kyra stood up and ran her hands along the cockpit dashboard, but nothing looked like it controlled the engines. No ignition button, no key. Where’s the engine control? Her eyes slid to the stern of the boat, to the door down to the hold. There must be a cockpit down there.
Kyra scrambled back to Charlie. Lightning lit up the sky for a split second, blinding her, and Kyra lost her footing. She slipped and slid along the deck, hurling toward the hungry sea. She flailed her arms, clawing desperately for anything. Her fingers latched onto a rope. She howled as her arm was wrenched from her shoulder socket, and her slide jerked to a stop. She pulled herself up, hand over hand. The edges of her vision turned black from the pain. She hauled herself back along the deck to the hold. The door flapped back and forth on its hinges, the locking mechanism useless. She yanked it aside with a shout and stumbled inside. Charlie had taken shelter from the rain and was sitting at the bottom of the stairwell, resting her head against the wall.
“Charlie!” Kyra called. She slipped on the rain-soaked stairs and tumbled down.
“Oh god.” Charlie rushed to her and grabbed her shoulders. “Did you call for help?”
“They cut the radio.” Kyra’s voice cracked with despair.
Her breaths came in short pants. Keep it together. Keep it together.
“Oh god.” Charlie put her fists to her mouth. “Oh god.”
“Charlie, we need to start the engine,” Kyra said, willing her voice to stay calm. “We need to get control of the boat.”
Charlie just shook her head. It dawned on her the same time Charlie’s eyes drifted toward the bow. The locked closet door.
“We’ll have to break it down,” Charlie wheezed, reading Kyra’s mind.
Kyra nodded, bolstered by her friend. “Together.”
“Together,” Charlie agreed with grim determination.
They rammed the door. Kyra’s shoulder exploded in pain at the impact, and she bit back a scream. The latching system gave way, and the door popped open. The interior cockpit, just a steering console and a captain’s chair, was for navigating the boat through a harbor. From the small window, they could see the bow dipping and rising. Waves crashed over the side, rolling the boat. The port side dipped under the water. Charlie screamed as they were thrown against the control panel from the force of a wave.
“Charlie!”
The boat righted itself with a groan and a sharp snap.
“I’m okay,” she said, but her voice cracked. She gripped the steering console, her knuckles white. Charlie pushed the ignition button, but nothing happened. Her eyes went wide. Kyra stared at the control panel, her stomach dropping. No! No. No. No.
“They may not be hooked up,” Charlie said.
“What?”
“The engines. They disconnect them when the boats are stored for the winter.”
“They disconnect the engines?” Kyra repeated the words thick in her mouth. “Like a car battery?” She sucked in a breath. “The engine room. Stay here.”
The Neamhnaid lurched.
“Go!” Charlie yelled.
Kyra ran back toward the engine room behind the stairs. Water streamed down the stairwell from the broken hold door. She held onto the walls, anything, to keep from slipping in the icy water. Her teeth chattered. She entered the engine room. A wave hit the Neamhnaid with a crash, and the boat rolled. Her feet left the floor. Kyra screamed. The boat righted itself again, throwing Kyra to the ground. The lights flickered and went out, pitching the room into darkness. Kyra kneeled on the wet floor in the pitch black, frozen in terror.
Suddenly, red lights glowed as the emergency system engaged. She let out a relieved sigh that stuttered like a sob.
The engine room was a mess. Debris had been flung everywhere since the boat had been set adrift. She stumbled to the panel that controlled the engines. No power. Kyra ran her hands along the wires and followed the connectors with her eyes. Everything looked connected.
A wave hit the boat, and she fell, barely stopping herself before her face slammed into the engine casing. That was when she saw it—a single, unconnected cable dangling underneath.
“Like connecting a battery,” she whispered and said a silent prayer to all the gods, her uncle Cam, and his shitty MG.
Lying down on the wet floor, Kyra reached under the engine bay, her fingers splayed, feeling for the cable. It swung just out of reach. Kyra extended her arm, reaching as far as she could, and the tip of her middle finger touched something. She stretched, and with the lurch of the boat, the cable swung into her palm. She grabbed it. With a cry, she pulled the cable up and plugged it into its port on the control panel. The bright red ready-light flicked on.
“Try it now!” she hollered her voice cracking.
There was a loud rumble and a clicking. The starter tried to turn the engines.
Kyra screamed to try again. “Please, start. Please. Please.” Kyra slammed her hand on the panel. “Fucking start!”
The starter clicked and clicked, and then, with a guttural roar, the engines caught. Kyra sagged against the console. The boat rocked and spasmed. Charlie. She ran, slipping and sliding back to the cockpit.
Charlie was standing in front of the steering column, holding the wheel, struggling against the force of the sea. “Help,” she begged through gritted teeth.
Kyra grabbed the wheel, and together, hand over fist, they forced the Neamhnaid to change direction. The boat rumbled and seized as it fought the current and the waves tacking port side. Inch by inch, they turned the bow into the waves. With each inch, the rocking subsided.
“We’ve got to hold it here to keep from capsizing,” Charlie said through gasps. Sweat beaded on her brow. “But the boat won’t last long. It won’t be able to take the pounding.” Charlie’s voice wavered. Something in her tone alarmed Kyra.
“Charlie? Are you okay?”
Charlie’s voice wasn’t shaking, her entire body was. Kyra swallowed.
“No. I don’t think I am,” Charlie said, her voice so soft Kyra could barely make out the words.
“You stay with me, Charlie. Hold the boat.” Kyra grabbed Charlie’s shoulders, forcing her to look at her. She pushed her down into the chair. “Hold the boat. I need you.” She ran to the kitchen and yanked out the drawers. Sugar. She found a small box containing coffee supplies and a few packets of sugar. Holding them and a water bottle, praying she didn’t drop them in the water, she made her way back to the cockpit. “Here. Eat this.” She tore open the sugar packets, handing them to her, then pushed the water bottle into her hands.
Charlie slumped back in the chair. “Thank you,” she said, her voice resigned.
Kyra wrapped her hands around the steering wheel and fought the boat, keeping it straight. The engines groaned and stuttered, but the Neamhnaid moved forward into the waves. Slowly climbing up, up, then down with a bone-shattering crash, again and again and again.
She didn’t know what direction they were traveling in, where they were going, or if anyone would be able to find them, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. For now, she just needed to keep the Neamhnaid afloat and Charlie alive.