Chapter 4

My own voice pulled me awake.

"Grant, if anything happens to me... please take care of Vivian and Lily. They need you more than I do."

The voice came from the television across from my hospital bed.

Grant stood on the screen beneath my black-and-white photograph. His thumb rested on the phone playing the recording.

A nurse held my wrist. She was fastening a plastic bracelet marked JANE DOE.

The news ticker below Grant read:

8:28 A.M. SEARCH FOR ELENA MERCER CHANGED TO BODY RECOVERY.

My right leg had seventeen stitches. Smoke and seawater had damaged my throat. When I tried to say my name, only a broken breath came out.

My evening gown lay in a clear bag beside the bed. Seaweed clung to the gray fabric. Dried blood had stiffened the skirt.

On television, the recording ended.

Grant lowered his head before the cameras.

"These were Elena’s final wishes. She deserves to be heard."

The nurse released my wrist.

I stared at the television.

It was my voice, but I had never spoken those words together.

The first part came from a message before surgery four years ago. The second came from the night of Owen’s funeral, when I asked Grant to send Vivian and Lily home with a driver. The final sentence came from a Harbor Light relief meeting.

Three old recordings had been turned into my dying wish.

I pushed myself upright. A red stain spread across the bandage on my leg.

The television cut to Vivian.

She wore my founder’s badge and held a white handkerchief embroidered with my initials.

It had belonged to my mother. Before the explosion, it had been inside the zippered pocket of my evening bag.

"Rescue workers gave me Elena’s bag," Vivian said.

"I could never replace her. I only want to finish the life she didn’t get to finish."

She wiped her eyes with my handkerchief, folded it, and put it into her pocket.

Grant rested his hand against her back.

I pulled the oxygen monitor from my finger and tried to stand. The nurse pushed me back onto the bed.

"Your vocal cords are injured. You must not speak."

I pointed to the hospital tablet and wrote one name.

Rachel.

I remembered her number. My damaged voice did not sound like mine, so the nurse started a video call.

Rachel saw my bruised face and the JANE DOE bracelet. Her coffee cup stopped halfway to her mouth.

"Elena?"

I nodded.

"Do not let the hospital release your identity. I’m coming."

Rachel sent the recording to an audio-forensics expert. Twenty minutes later, a blue waveform filled the tablet.

He played one section slowly.

"Please take care of—Vivian and Lily."

"The background noise disappears after 'of,’" he said.

"The breathing gap was removed."

He marked two more breaks. One carried the hum of an air conditioner. Another contained the faint click of a car’s turn signal.

"I cannot identify the editor from a compressed copy, but I can confirm at least three editing points. We need the original file and metadata."

Rachel saved his report.

I typed:

Do not contact Grant. Preserve everything first.

Grant knew he had last seen me on the starboard deck. He knew I had left no final recording.

Still, he had played it for the world.

Rachel’s phone vibrated.

Harbor Light had issued an official statement. My photograph appeared above a quotation from the fabricated message.

The final lines read:

In accordance with Elena Mercer’s final wishes, the board has approved an emergency resolution.

Effective immediately, Vivian Hale will serve as Acting Chair of the Harbor Light Foundation.