Chapter 2

Three days later, I was back at the office.

My desk was buried under a mountain of paperwork. Everyone came to show their concern.

"Is everything okay at home?"

"Was your wife badly hurt?"

I just nodded and told each of them, "She's fine." My face didn't give anything away.

At lunch, Frankie Fraser sat down across from me with his tray.

"Greta's best guy friend was at the hospital again," he said.

With a piece of pulled pork between my fork, I kept eating, not missing a beat.

"How many times is that today?" I asked.

"Third time. He shows up with soup every time, and there's always a little note stuck to the thermos," Frankie said, taking a sip of his soup and lowering his voice.

"Bro, I know I shouldn't say anything, but when the whole cruise thing got out, everyone in the department thought you got a raw deal."

"Let's just eat," I said.

"Aren't you even a little pissed?" Frankie asked.

I put down my fork and looked at him.

"Frankie, do you think holding a grudge means you're angry, or not?" I asked.

Frankie paused, then gave a sheepish grin. "Okay, I'll zip it."

At two in the afternoon, Greta called.

I watched my phone buzz six times before I finally picked up.

"Kieran, I'm so bored in the hospital. Can you come keep me company after work?" she asked.

"I'm working late," I replied.

"What about tomorrow?" she asked.

"I'm going on a business trip," I said.

There was a five-second silence on the other end.

"Are you still mad at me?" Greta's voice got softer. "Isn't my apology enough? I know I screwed up on the cruise, but it was a special situation..."

I cut her off, "Greta, isn't Louie there with you again today?"

She stayed quiet.

I could hear her breathing quicken.

"How how did you know?" she asked, her voice shaky.

"In a small town, word gets around," I said.

I hung up, tossed my phone in the drawer, and got back to revising the proposal on my laptop.

But I couldn't focus on the computer at all.

So I opened another folder. It was an encrypted file, simply titled: [Starlight].

Inside was everything I'd spent a year gathering.

There were security camera screenshots from that day.

There were statements from the other passengers on the lifeboat.

There was Louie's Instagram post after the incident. [Survived the storm, thanks to my guardian angel.]

The photo showed him in that orange life jacket, flashing a peace sign at the camera.

But the real clincher was Greta's phone records.

In the week leading up to the cruise disaster, she and Louie spent forty-seven minutes, an hour and three, and twenty-nine minutes on the phone.

Eleven missed calls that day went to Louie.

Not one went to me.

I closed the folder.

I was not in a hurry.

These weren't for today or tomorrow.

They were for the day she thought it was all behind her, when she believed an apology was enough to wipe the slate clean.

My phone buzzed again.

Greta texted: [I know you're upset, but Louie's just a friend. Can't you stop acting like this?]

I left her on read.

I got up, grabbed a glass of water, and stood by the window, watching the traffic below.

The wind was strong up on the seventeenth floor, rattling the windows.

I took a sip of water. It was cold, sliding down my throat and making my stomach clench.

It was the same feeling I had a year ago, when I crawled out of the ocean. A chill seeped right through my bones.

I crushed the paper cup and tossed it in the trash.