“Your body’s finally slowing down.”
He would kiss my forehead.
Bring me tea.
Tell me to sleep.
And every time he did, I felt worse.
Our yacht, the Mercer Star, moved between the outer islands of the Evermere Isles, cutting through water so blue it looked painted.
It had been my father’s wedding gift.
Not ownership exactly.
Use of it for the season.
Thirty-eight meters of white hull, polished teak, six guest cabins, a glass-walled lounge and enough crew to make privacy difficult.
Except Adrian had somehow created plenty.
On the first day, he suggested we dismiss half the crew for “a more intimate honeymoon.”
I refused.
He laughed.
“Worth trying.”
By day three, though, most of the crew seemed unusually distant.
The steward who normally brought bre
“Drink this. You look pale.”
I had.
I reached for the glass.
There was a faint white residue near the bottom.
Electrolytes could do that.
So could a lot of other things.
I carried the glass into the bathroom.
Under bright light, I smelled it.
Nothing.
I dipped a finger.
Bitter.
Not salty.
Bitter.
A memory surfaced.
That afternoon, one of the junior deckhands had been replacing a cabinet latch near the aft passage when he saw Adrian hand me a cup.
He had looked at the cup.
Then at Adrian.
Then away.
A tiny thing.
At the time, meaningless.
Now it bothered me.
I went back to the bedroom.
Adrian had rolled onto his side.
His breathing looked steady.
I dressed quietly.
Then left.
The Mercer Star at night was a different vessel.
No laughter.
He froze.
“Why?”
“Because this vessel belongs to my family.”
That was not completely accurate, but it worked.
“Claire—”
“Show me.”
He looked toward the stairs.
Then lowered his voice.
“You should speak to the captain.”
“I am speaking to you.”
His discomfort deepened.
Then he said something strange.
“Please don’t drink anything you didn’t open yourself.”
My skin went cold.
“What?”
He stepped backward.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Please go back to your cabin.”
Then he disappeared down the service corridor.
I stood there for several seconds.
One thought replaced all others.
Get the log.
The captain’s office was locked.
I knew the Mercer Star well enough to know there was a backup key in the bridge chart cabinet.
My father had insisted on redundant emergency access years ago.
I found it.
Opened the office.
Inside, everything looked normal.
Navigation printouts.
Customs forms.
Maintenance reports.
Then I found the medical binder in a lower drawer.
I searched my name.
There were seven entries.
Seven.
We had been aboard three days.
The first was dated two days before we departed.
Passenger: Claire Mercer.
Medical note: history of stress-related vertigo, intermittent sedative use, panic symptoms.
I stared.
None of that was true.
I had never taken sedatives.
Never had panic-related vertigo.
Below it:
Spouse authorized to supervise evening medication if symptoms recur.
Signed:
Adrian Cole.
Not me.
The next entries documented “voluntary” doses.
Night one.
Night two.
Night three.
Doses I had never agreed to take.
Then a handwritten note from the nurse.
Patient appeared more impaired than expected. Recommend discontinuing all medication until physician consult. Mr. Cole objected.
Another note below:
Medication inventory discrepancy. Two blister packs missing from locked cabinet.
My hands began shaking.
I photographed every page with my phone.
Then heard footsteps.
I closed the binder.
Too late.
The door opened.
The captain stood there.
He looked at me.
Then at the open drawer.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally:
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
I held up the binder.
“Neither should this.”
His face changed.
“You saw it.”
“Yes.”
He closed the door.
That frightened me more than if he had called security.
“Who changed my medical record?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who gave Adrian access to medication?”
akfast stopped coming.
Adrian c
