by Carrie Ryan
He grabs my wrist. “I’m going with you.”
My back bristles. “No way will he talk if you’re there.”
“I’ll stay out of sight,” he counters.
“And if he sees you, it’s all over,” I point out. “Everything I’ve done to win his trust, to wind him up so he’ll have no choice but to find someone to confide in—the entire plan—all of it will have been for nothing.”
“It’s too dangerous, Frances.”
I throw my hands in the air, exasperated. “Haven’t I already proven that I know what I’m doing?” I tell him. “Besides, I don’t need you to be my keeper—I can take care of myself just fine, thank you.”
He tenses, standing straighter, and the expression on his face hardens. “If I don’t hear anything from you in thirty minutes I’m going after you. And if you’re not on the beach, I’m calling Morales and telling her everything.”
I know he doesn’t mean it as a threat, but his words rankle me all the same. “Fine, do what you want,” I tell him on my way out the door.
“Frances,” he calls after me, voice stern.
I turn, forcing my mouth to smile and my expression to soften as though I’m relenting. “I promise I’ll be careful.” I say it sweetly, earnestly. Convincingly. He nods and the moment my back is turned, I let my face fall back into a scowl.
Outside, it’s a mostly clear night. Though a storm threatens from the mainland, a half-full moon shines over the ocean, dusting pearlescent glances along the wave crests. I walk briskly, so by the time I see Grey in the distance, we’re far closer to his house than to mine.
As soon as he sees me, he begins to jog and as he draws near my glance falls to his lips, remembering how just last night they’d been pressed against my own. And my jaw. And my neck and the crest of my shoulder.
I clench my hands into fists, forcing the memories from my mind. Forcing myself to focus.
“You okay?” he asks, reaching for me. His face is cast in enough shadow that it’s difficult to read his expression. But his voice betrays his anxiety. I nod.
There’s a brief pause while he swallows. And then he asks, “What do you remember?”
I bite at my lip, crossing my arms and holding myself tightly. Knowing that it makes me appear more vulnerable. “Men,” I tell him. “With guns,” I add, trembling.
His eyes flutter shut, chin falling to his chest.
“How can that be right?” I ask him.
He lets out a resigned breath, everything about him deflating. He drops his hands from my shoulders and steps toward the ocean, stopping just beyond the highest reach of the tide. He doesn’t respond and my heart pounds harder. Even knowing the truth, I find myself trembling.
“Wait, how can that be right?” I ask coming up beside him. “It can’t be. Right?” I sound like I’m on the edge of panic. “Tell me I’m wrong!”
He shakes his head. “You’re not wrong.”
I gasp. I don’t have to feign surprise because a part of me still expected him to deny it. Can’t believe he’s actually giving in. “What are you saying?” I press my fingers against my lips, my breathing strained. “I don’t understand.”
He glances back toward his house, and then at me. “The Persephone didn’t sink because of a rogue wave. It was attacked.” His voice barely exists over the whisper of the tide crawling its way toward us.
And for a moment, I truly am stunned. To hear him say the words. To have confirmation.
To finally have the truth.
I need to hear it again. “What?”
He glances again toward his house and then turns, hands reaching for me, but I shrug out of his grasp. “Listen, Libby, you can’t let anyone know about this. If my father figures out you remember, he’d . . .” He swallows, realizing he’s already said too much.
“He’d what?” I press.
He shakes his head.
“What would your father do if he knew I remember the truth about the Persephone?”
“God, Libby.” He fists his hands through his hair, anguished and frustrated. “I can’t talk about it.” His eyes silently beg me to believe him.
I refuse. And I ask the question that’s been banging against my heart for four years. “Why did you lie about what happened?”
His face is ashen, paler than the moonlight. “Because I was scared,” he says in a small voice. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You could have told the truth,” I snap. “They would have kept looking for us.”
He shakes his head. “They wouldn’t have found you.” I open my mouth to protest but he cuts me off. “Where they found us? Where they think the ship went down? It was all a lie.”
The blood drains from my limbs and my lips go numb. This is new information. I’m having a hard time standing and so I crouch, my fingers digging into the damp sand. “How?” I wheeze.
“Before they attacked, they hacked the Persephone’s frequencies—broadcasting the wrong coordinates,” he explains. “The coast guard was always looking in the wrong place. That way they wouldn’t be able to find any wreckage or debris and figure out what happened.”
“Then how did they find you?”
“The men took us with them. Left us at the other coordinates for the rescue crews to find.”
It’s difficult to breathe. All this time I’d assumed that if the coast guard had just kept looking they’d have found us. And they never would have. They were searching in the wrong place.
Grey crouches in front of me, not caring about the waves curling up and around his feet, drenching the hem of his pants. “You have to believe me! I didn’t know anyone else had survived the attack,” he pleads. “They told me everyone else was dead. If I’d thought for a second . . .” He clenches his teeth, eyes glistening.
“Did you know?”
He frowns, puzzled.
“Did you know about the attack beforehand?” I clarify. “Did you know it was going to happen?”
FORTY-FIVE
Grey’s eyes widen, horrified at the idea that he might have known about the attack ahead of time. “God, no! I had no idea—none! You have to believe me. Neither did my father.”
I laugh at that, the sound sharp. “Believe you?” I shake my head like it’s the most ridiculous suggestion in the world.
He winces at the bitterness in my voice. “Libby, please, I’m sorr—”
Hearing that name on his lips is too much, like a slap to the face. I can’t bear for him to say it again. “Why did they attack the ship?”
His shoulders drop, resigned. “I don’t really know for sure. But from what I’ve overheard . . . Money. Power. I think there were some people on the ship who were in the way of something.” He runs a finger through the sand, watching the divot refill with water. “And they needed someone in the government to protect their interests—they completely control my father now.”
“So, what, they took out an entire ship of people so they could blackmail one Senator?” I scoff. “That seems like a lot of effort—they could have just paid him off.”
“But that’s the problem, isn’t it? If they could buy him off, then someone else could too,” he points out. “This way they never have to worry about my father’s loyalty.”
I press the back of my wrist against my forehead, trying to wrap my head around this. Grey’s voice is so calm and even. Whatever rage or fight he may have felt in the past has been tamed, any indignation curbed. “That’s not a reason to take out an entire ship full of innocent people,” I shout.
“How many wars have been fought—how many people have died—because someone wanted more money or power?” he asks. “Hitler? Pol Pot? Stalin? Alexander the Great? Emperor Hirohito? Napoleon?”
“I know,” I cut him off. “It’s just . . .” I realize that, more than anything else, I’m disappointed. “I guess I t
hought there’d be a better reason. Something important.”
“People do shitty things for shitty reasons.”
The statement hangs in the air for a while before I ask, “Who was behind the attack?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbles. But his hand reaches up to rub that spot behind his ear. And this is what enrages me. That he would continue to lie. I smack his arm, pushing him backward so that he splashes onto his back in the shallow tide.
“Stop lying!” I scream, kneeling over him. “I deserve the truth!”
He reaches for my wrists but something over my shoulder catches his attention and his eyes go wide. The last time I saw such naked terror on anyone’s face was on the Persephone. I stiffen, about to turn and look, when Grey flips me over so that I’m beneath him.
His chest crushes mine. I’m so surprised by the move that it takes me a moment before I can even struggle. But Grey’s stronger than I am and he has me pinned. I’ve just drawn a breath to scream when I feel his lips against my ear.
“Please,” he begs, “if you’ve ever trusted me in the past, please just trust me again now.” The breath catches in my throat. Frances holding back the scream, giving Grey a chance.
“There’s someone watching us from the boardwalk to my house and if he suspects you have your memory back, he’ll kill you.” My body goes rigid with fear and he runs a hand down my arm, trying to calm me.
Bringing my wrist to his lips, he kisses his way toward my shoulder, making this moment appear romantic to anyone watching. “You have to understand,” he continues to explain. “The men behind the Persephone are powerful and they’ll do anything to stay that way. Anything. Why do you think I’ve stayed silent about this for so long?
“I know you hate me right now, and you should. But just this once, please pretend you don’t.” He pulls back so that he can meet my eyes. His fingertips whisper against my temple. Our mouths are centimeters apart, his breath spilling and tangling with my own. “Please, I can’t bear to lose you.”
He doesn’t add the word again, but it’s there in his eyes. Frances reaches for it, consuming every part of me in her effort to break free. And I let her. Because for Frances, Grey will forever be as he was that last night on the cruise ship, unerringly in love with her.
She’s never had to confront his lies. Never had to feel the slice of his betrayal. She will never have to sort through the things he’s confessed tonight.
Frances is still there on the deck of the Persephone, still kissing him as the rain pours down around her. Blissfully unaware that in moments everything she knows about her life will come crashing around her.
Feeling the surge of her passion, I tangle my hands in Grey’s hair and drag his lips to my own. I kiss him hungrily, my heel hooking around his calf, pulling him tighter. Tendrils of waves lick up around us, the night a roar of the ocean and the flavor of salt.
And then a man loudly clears his throat nearby. We jerk apart. Grey twists, looking up. That’s when I catch a glimpse of the man who’s been watching us and the world narrows to one brilliant point of light, focused entirely on him.
There’s nothing really all that exceptional about his appearance. He’s middle-aged with salt-and-pepper hair and narrow shoulders. The kind of guy you might find behind the window at a bank and then easily forget. Innocuous.
But all I can think is How is he here? while in my head it all explodes at once: the sound of screams; the smell of blood; the terror. This man, gun in hand, walking down the hallway of the Persephone toward me. Pointing it at Mrs. O’Martin’s writhing body and pulling the trigger without hesitation.
He kicks open the door to our stateroom. My parents huddle on the floor. Nowhere to hide. Their arms around each other. He raises the gun.
I take a sharp breath, forcing the images away. Forcing my heart to calm and breathing to steady and hands to stop trembling. Forcing myself to remember that I’m not supposed to know this man. Not supposed to recognize him.
I’m not supposed to remember.
He’s a stranger, I tell myself. A stranger.
“Your father’s looking for you, Grey,” the man says.
Grey’s head drops as he curses under his breath. But his eyes are on mine as he rolls off me, searching to see if I have the strength to pull off this charade. An insane part of me wants to laugh at his concern.
If there’s anything in life at which I excel, it’s playing the role I’m given.
Grey stands, offering a hand to help me up. “This is Thom—head of my dad’s security,” he explains. His gaze holds mine, begging me to play along with the lie. “With all the media around after Mom’s accident, Dad called him in to keep an eye on things.”
What goes unspoken is that the “thing” Thom’s been charged with keeping tabs on is likely me.
Thom’s focus crawls over me, sharp like razor blades slicing up my spine. “And you are?” His voice is more curt than before, keenly honed.
Beside me, Grey tenses, but he needn’t be worried. “Hi,” I chirp, my own voice grating against the walls of my skull. “I’m Libby. I’m the one who rescued Mrs. Wells.”
I hold out a hand and as Thom’s fingers slide against mine I bite my cheek hard enough to draw blood. “Thom Ridger,” he says. “I’m in charge of the Wellses’ personal security and I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to go, Libby.” His eyes bore into mine, probing to see if I remember.
Bile rises in my throat. Going into this I’d been prepared to see Grey again. To see his entire family and throw myself into their world. But I’d never even considered I’d encounter any of the gunmen from the ship that night. In all my research, I’d never come across a hint of Thom. Never a photo or reference.
I’d assumed the Senator would keep the men involved in the attack at a distance. Unless he wasn’t the one pulling the strings. Unless the men behind the Persephone were here to make sure the Senator and his family stayed in line.
To make sure I stayed in line as well. I think of Libby’s ring, the face scratched. Of the Libby Too, now at the bottom of the harbor.
A shiver presses through me. “Sure, I should go,” I murmur. I turn to Grey and push up on my toes. “Good night,” I whisper against his lips before brushing a kiss across them. Then I’m on the beach, running. Tears blurring my eyes and my heart screaming against my chest as storm winds crest over the dunes.
FORTY-SIX
The moment Shepherd sees me, his eyes go wide. “Frances!” He races toward me as I stumble through the kitchen door. I’m struggling to breathe, and not just from my sprint down the beach. Every time I close my eyes Thom is there. Standing in front of me. Shaking my hand.
Kicking down the door to my family’s stateroom.
Shepherd grips my shoulders tight, trying to get me to focus on him.
Lifting the gun.
“Frances!”
My mom staring past him. At me.
He shakes my shoulders.
My dad’s head snapping back surrounded by a halo of red.
“Shh, hey.” Shepherd’s hands shift to my cheeks, pulling my face close to his. So that his eyes meet mine only inches apart. “Frances,” he whispers. And I blink, struggling to focus.
“It’s okay.” He tucks my hair behind my ears. I can’t stop my teeth from chattering.
“Grey confessed.” I choke on the words. “All of it.”
Shepherd lets out a long breath in a hiss and eases back. I struggle to bring myself under control. Hating how my body shakes, how my voice trembles. How tears still leak from my eyes. I shrug out of his grip and turn, pressing my hands against my face and inhaling deep.
“Frances . . .” His voice is soft, filled with concern. I shake my head and he says nothing more.
With effort I force my blood into a hum, my heart into a duller rumble. Adrenaline still spills through me, making
my stomach roil, and I twist it into cold anger rather than fear. “Grey told me everything.”
When I turn to face Shepherd, he leans against the kitchen island, hands braced on the counter by his hips, giving me space. Outside lights flicker in the distance, the storm huddled on the horizon, kicking up lightning. It takes several moments for the thunder to find its way to us, a muffled thump and shudder.
I move to the windows, watching the shadows thrown by the patio floodlights—sea oats tangling and dipping in the wind of the approaching storm. Pressing my hand against the glass, I think of the waves, whipping and rising under the pressure of the roiling clouds. Turning from smooth glass to jagged shards.
In a steady voice, I recount everything Grey told me about the Persephone. Shepherd pulls out a chair, sitting with his elbows braced against the kitchen table and his head cradled in his hands. He says nothing, just listens, and when I’m finished there’s only the sound of the wind and rain.
“But he doesn’t know the men behind the actual attack? Why they did it?” he asks.
I turn and lean against the wall, shaking my head. “Only that there was someone on the ship in their way and they needed to get rid of them and secure the Senator’s loyalty.”
I blow out a frustrated breath, trying to put all the pieces together and failing. “But I’ve already researched the other passengers. I checked them all and there was nothing.”
“Maybe Grey was lying,” Shepherd offers.
There’d definitely been something he was holding back, but I don’t think it was this. “No, I’m missing something—some connection.” I shove my hands through my hair, tugging.
“Then let’s go through it again,” he says.
Sighing, I pull my cell from my pocket, call up the familiar webpage with photos of the Persephone passengers, and toss it toward Shepherd. “Ship’s manifest,” I explain.
His forehead furrows as he scans down the page. But I don’t hold my breath. I’ve spent so many hours scouring every last detail of the Persephone that I practically have it all memorized. I let my head fall back against the wall, remembering.
