Chapter 3

"The last time I saw my wife, she was still trapped below deck."

Grant’s voice came through the fishing boat’s radio while I lay on the deck less than three feet away from it.

But only a few hours earlier, I had been drifting alone in the ocean.

Icy seawater poured into my evening gown.

When I surfaced, the yacht was already engulfed in flames. The wound in my right leg burned in the salt water, the pain drilling upward along the bone.

A spare life jacket floated toward me.

I grabbed the shoulder strap, pulled it over my body, and opened the protective cover over the locator beacon.

The compartment was empty.

There was a fresh scratch along the edge of the mounting slot. Only half of the red activation tab remained.

I pulled it three times.

No light.

No signal.

A helicopter sounded in the distance.

Its searchlight swept across the wreckage, but never turned toward the water where I was drifting. I tore the silver belt from my dress and waved it above my head.

The beam moved toward another section of the ocean.

The fire consuming the yacht grew smaller.

The only thing left beside me was a white seat cushion that had floated out of the ballroom. Red wine stained its surface like dried blood.

I pressed my arms against the cushion and stared at the harbor lights in the distance.

Before dawn, every one of those lights disappeared.

When I opened my eyes again, a pair of rough hands had closed around my wrist.

Two fishermen pulled me onto the deck.

My wet dress left a long trail of water across the wooden boards. The blood from my right leg had faded to pale pink and ran through the drainage grooves toward the stern.

The older fisherman wrapped a blanket around me.

"She’s alive. Call the Coast Guard."

I tried to say my name, but only a broken breath came from my throat.

He handed me a piece of paper and a pencil.

My hand shook too badly to hold it.

In the end, I managed to write only two letters.

E.M.

The pencil rolled from my fingers.

The younger fisherman knelt beside my life jacket and examined the label inside.

"This is one of the yacht’s spare models. It doesn’t have a personal identification number."

The older fisherman took out the ship’s log and recorded the time and coordinates where they had found me.

8:17 a.m.

Eleven miles southwest of the wreck.

He also photographed the empty locator compartment on the life jacket and the wound on my leg.

News about the accident came through the radio.

A reporter was interviewing Grant.

"Mr. Mercer, are you certain your wife never reached the upper deck?"

After a brief silence, Grant answered.

"I’m certain. Before the final explosion, she was still in the lower ballroom. I wanted to go back, but the fire had already blocked the stairs."

I gripped the blanket around me.

My fingers sank deep into the wet wool.

He was lying.

The last time Grant saw me, I was standing on the starboard deck, less than six feet from his lifeboat.

I had called his name.

A woman’s sobs came through the radio.

Vivian had begun speaking to the reporters.

"Elena gave me her life jacket. She said Lily couldn’t lose another mother."

Her breathing came in broken gasps.

"She gave the last place to Grant too. She looked at me and smiled. She told me not to blame myself."

I looked down at the spare life jacket around my body.

The one Vivian had taken had my initials embroidered across the chest.

Now she had taken my final words too.

The younger fisherman lowered the radio’s volume.

I raised one hand and pointed toward the ship’s log.

He handed it to me.

Beneath the coordinates, I slowly wrote:

The last time Grant saw me, I was on the starboard deck.

Seawater and blood made the letters spread across the page.

I added the approximate time the lifeboat had been lowered and the color of the life jacket Vivian had been wearing.

The pencil tip snapped as I began the third line.

The radio inside the cabin grew louder again.

A Coast Guard spokesperson was giving an update on the search.

"Based on the last known location provided by Mr. Grant Mercer, we have completed our primary search of the lower wreckage area."

The older fisherman grabbed the microphone.

"We have found a female survivor. Repeat, we have found a female survivor."

Only harsh static answered him.

The fishing boat had traveled beyond the main communication range. They would have to take me to the nearest out-of-state port first.

The spokesperson continued speaking.

"If no new evidence of survival is received, the operation will transition from search and rescue to body recovery at 8:28 a.m."

I turned toward the digital clock above the controls.

8:17.

They would begin searching for my body in eleven minutes.