JESSA
I turn my back to the body and stare through the window out across the water. The ocean is supposed to be relaxing. Nature’s white noise. But I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.
Then four men walk in.
I turn to look at them, but their features slip through my mind like sand through a sieve. The only thing I can fixate on is that they’re all wearing thick, dark gloves.
They ignore me completely as they set down two hefty briefcases. Inside, I see a selection of jars and bottles along with scrubbers, towels, and what looks like a handheld power washer.
The men unpack it all and begin their work of making a murder disappear.
I have no doubt that once they’re done, it will be like nothing ever happened. The yacht will be what it always has been, the same thing Anton is: a beautiful façade for horrible things.
I know better than to ask them for help. Men like this don’t rescue damsels in distress. The exact opposite, actually. No doubt that if I so much as open my mouth, every word will be reported back to him.
I may not have made many smart decisions today, but I’m not completely brainless.
I pivot back to the window, though my morbid sense of curiosity has me glancing back towards the cleanup crew every few seconds. It’s only been a few minutes, but the blood has already vanished. Part of me wishes I’d watched them work—if only so I don’t drive myself crazy wondering whether all this was real or just part of some twisted nightmare.
Suddenly, my knees start to buckle. Chris used to call me a delayed responder. My physical response to trauma takes a few hours to settle in. When I found out about my dad cheating on my mom, I was fine for half a day, then I promptly keeled over in a crosswalk and almost got smushed into a pancake by a dump truck.
I grip the arm of the sofa behind me and limp over to it, sinking down before I can completely collapse. I rest my elbows on my knees and support my head in my palms. I shut my eyes so tightly that I begin to see weird shapes floating and spinning amidst the darkness.
Only when those shapes start taking the form of dead men do I wrench my eyes open again.
The thing that first catches my attention is the cell phone sitting on the glass-topped table in front of me.
Anton’s phone.
I glance up to see if anyone else has noticed me noticing it. But all four men are engrossed in their grisly task. It’s like I don’t exist to them.
My heart hammers hard in my chest. I could pocket the phone. That way, I have some insurance that Anton will honor his word if he agrees to let me live. Otherwise, what’s to stop him from letting me go back to my life and then “accidentally” choking on dinner alone in my apartment or, whoops, slipping and falling over the edge of a ten-story balcony? It’d be so easy to make me disappear.
But if I have something precious of his hidden somewhere safe, that’s a lifeline. That’s hope.
That’s the best I can ask for.
My eyes flit from the men to the phone, from the phone to the men, back and forth and forth and back. I chew at my lip until I taste blood. At any moment, Anton could walk through that door and the opportunity will have slipped past me.
Do it. Act now, Jessa. Don’t be a coward.
Before I can second-guess myself, I surreptitiously slide the phone off the table and stuff it into my pocket. The material of the dress is thin and I can’t help fearing that Anton could spot the bulge from outer space.
It’s too late to turn back now, though.
I keep my eyes rooted on the floor between my feet—until a dead man’s face floats up in front of me.
I bite back a scream when I realize the cleanup crew is lifting the body off the floor and hauling him away with grim efficiency. That blood, so much blood… I shudder. I wish I knew of a prayer or a mantra or something spiritual I could whisper to myself on his behalf.
But if I ever believed in a merciful God, that faith disappeared when I walked in on Dane and Salma.
The moment they disappear through the door, I pull out the phone and stash it inside my bra instead of my pocket. Just as I pull my hand out, someone walks through the door. Oh God, of course it’s—
I stop short, realizing it’s not Anton at all. It’s his brother. They do look remarkably alike, though.
“Not quite the night you envisioned, huh?” Yulian asks with the easy smile that seems permanently attached to his face.
“Is that how they tell you two apart?” I ask coldly.