How could I even think of turning my back on the hundreds of dead—my own parents—for the promise of a soft kiss? For the chance at a sympathetic ear? For a heart that beats at the same volume as my own?
Especially when it’s been proven that those kisses are lies.
Everything about Grey is a lie.
Inside, Frances objects. Grey hurts too, she insists.
“Good,” I whisper to the ocean. He should hurt.
They all should.
THIRTY-THREE
I press myself against the cold metal wall of the dumbwaiter, my hand clamped so tightly over my mouth that my fingers dig into my cheeks. Even so, a high-pitched whine climbs its way up the back of my throat, coated in acid. I know without question that if they hear me, I am dead.
I’m dead either way. The thought is like white noise, filling my head and drowning out my ability to think. There’s a scream. A quick succession of gunfire. Then shadows move along the far wall. On to the next room.
If anyone tries to run, they’re taken care of by the men stationed at the emergency exits at either end of the hallway. A trail of bodies leads to their feet. The entire ship is locked down: the elevators, the stairwells.
They just didn’t think about the dumbwaiter. But I had. I’d been thinking about it since our third day at sea when Libby dared me to ride it between floors and I’d been too chicken. When the gunfire erupted, my parents screamed at me to hide.
I’d climbed in here. Knees crammed to my chin. Staring out through the two-way mirror of the door as armed men slowly. Slowly. And yet too, too fast make their way to my family’s stateroom across the hall.
I can’t push the button for the dumbwaiter to move. They might hear it. I’m too terrified to even turn my head. What if they can hear the whisper of my hair against my shoulders?
When they throw open the door to our room, I try to close my eyes. But I can’t. They’re crouched together, my parents. Dad with his arms around Mom as if that could shield her.
Mom’s lips move. It doesn’t matter. The man with the gun doesn’t bother to listen. The sound of those bullets erases everything about me. It stops time, the absolute impossibility of the moment deafening. If I had lungs. Or a throat. Or if there were such a thing as air, I would scream.
But none of those things exist anymore. All of them shattered along with my mother’s heart. My father’s skull.
I wake to absolute silence, even my heart hesitating in its beat. Everything in my room is perfectly still. Except for the air. There’s a whisper of it across my cheeks and it feels out of place. I listen for the hum of the air conditioner, but it’s off at the moment.
I slide my eyes from window to window but they’re all closed. The only movement the slight swing of the cord to the blinds blocking the balcony doors. My pulse returns in a rush, filling my ears, and I gasp as though I haven’t taken a breath in hours.
My body still retains that sleep heaviness, making me feel, for a moment, that I have no limbs. I push slowly until I’m sitting, my senses straining. Then I slip from the bed, move to the balcony. Use the tips of my fingers to push apart the cracked doors.
The moon spills across the dunes, giving them the appearance of snow-dusted hills. Feather-tipped sea oats bend against the breeze, their narrow leaves fluttering. There’s nothing out of place.
And yet . . . I shake my head and step back, heading to the bathroom. The light is bright against my eyes and I squint as I turn the faucet, cup handfuls of water, and drink.
Nightmares from the Persephone always leave me thirsty. But there is never enough water in the world to quench it.
THIRTY-FOUR
The next morning the news stations are awash with video of Senator Wells on the way into the hospital to visit his wife before she’s discharged in the afternoon. I take advantage of the opportunity and head over to Grey’s hoping to catch him home alone. When I reach the end of his driveway, reporters rush toward the car. Photographers lean over the hood pressing close and snapping photos. The police push them back, creating a tunnel just narrow enough for me to eke through.
The Wellses’ housekeeper opens the door, a harried look on her face, and I can only imagine how many times she’s had to turn away reporters who somehow snuck their way past the cops. But as soon as she sees that it’s me she takes my hands in hers and pulls me inside.
“If it isn’t my angel,” she tells me. She wraps me in a tight hug that smells of linen and lemons. There’s a moment when I’m reminded of my mom, of the way her body felt—both soft and strong—when she held me.
An unexpected lump catches the back of my throat.
“I couldn’t even sleep last night—just kept thinking about what would have happened if you hadn’t reacted so bravely and calmly . . .” She shakes her head, unwilling to finish the statement. When she steps back I have a hard time meeting her eyes. She’s so genuine in her affection and regard for me that I feel a bit embarrassed.
If she knew the truth about me, she’d shove me out of this house and slam the door on my back.
“Grey,” she calls up over her shoulder. “Your friend is here!” She winks at me. “He was working out earlier—he should be down in a minute. If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.”
She reaches forward, cupping her hand on my cheek. “A true angel.” She smiles at me again before retreating down the hallway. It’s exactly the kind of reception I’d been hoping to elicit. By saving Mrs. Wells from drowning I’ve bought myself access to the Senator’s home and family.
And I’ve brought the media to bear to ensure that I keep that access. Right now I’m seen as a hero—there’s no way the Senator can push me away without facing blowback.
As before, the house is frigidly cold, the air-conditioning cranked at full blast, and I rub my hands over my arms, trying not to shiver. Finally Grey appears, jogging down the concrete staircase. He’s wearing running shorts and a T-shirt, his hair tousled and damp. Sweat still snakes down his face and he uses the hem of his shirt to wipe at it, giving me a flash of smoothly toned abs.
As he approaches, I can’t tell if his cheeks are red from working out or if he’s blushing because of last night. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” I tell him, clearing my throat. “I realized that I don’t have your number or I’d have called first.”
He smiles self-consciously. “Yeah, I realized that last night, which is why I decided to show up in person.” Dropping his gaze, he launches into an apology. “And about that . . .” He cringes. “Look, I was in really bad shape. With the hospital and all the reporters. I should have just gone to bed. But I was home alone and I couldn’t stop thinking about . . . and I just . . . I wanted to stop remembering it all. I know it’s wrong and that’s not really the kind of person I am—”
I reach out to reassure him, my fingers gliding over the slick skin of his arm. “Hey, it’s okay,” I tell him.
“I really hope I didn’t embarrass myself. Scratch that—I know I embarrassed myself, I just hope not too badly. I don’t really remember that much after taking that dunk in your pool . . .” He trails off, rubbing the spot behind his ear. The tell that he’s lying.
I have to swallow back the part of me that doesn’t want him to brush off last night so easily. The part of me that could spend every night under the stars listening to him talk about Frances and how much he might have loved her.
But that’s a dream from a different life. One that no longer exists.
This—what’s between us now—is all just another step in the plan.
Forcing a smile I tell him, “It was nothing.” The words are like acid across my tongue, painful but necessary. And so I flavor the statement with a bit of truth. “I’m glad I could be there for you.” Our eyes catch and hold, and I’m the one to look away first.
“Anyway,” I continue, “I just wanted to come by to make su
re you’re okay. Not just after last night but with . . .” I wave my hands vaguely toward the driveway and the outside world. “Everything going on.”
I shuffle my feet, as though uncomfortable at the strained formality of having this conversation standing in the foyer. “But I don’t want to interrupt, so I can go—”
“Don’t,” he says so quickly that our words tangle together. I look at him, my eyes widening slightly.
He clears his throat, cheeks flushing. “How about lunch?”
I bite my cheek. “I saw on the news that your mother’s coming home today and I really don’t want to be in your way. Plus I’m pretty sure your dad wouldn’t want me here, so it’s probably better if I just—” I turn toward the door and he reaches for me, fingers tugging lightly on mine.
For some reason the touch jolts me, causing my heart to race.
“Let me take you out,” he says. “We can go up to Charleston and disappear in the crowd of tourists. Get away from all of this crap for a while.” He pulls me toward him, just a tiny bit closer. “You have to feel it as much as I do—the claustrophobia of everything.”
I nod. “But your mom,” I protest.
His hand slips from mine. “Honestly”—he twists his mouth, bitter—“I’ll just be in the way. Please,” he adds. There’s something about the way he looks at me that causes my stomach to jumble and breath to catch. It’s the way he used to look at Frances—with a devouring need.
For a moment, I consider actually turning him down even though it would wreak havoc on my carefully laid plans. I’m supposed to be spending time with him, supposed to be making him fall for me.
But I’m not supposed to fall for him in return.
It had never occurred to me doing so could be a danger. Greyson Wells has been the object of my fury for so long. The linchpin to my revenge schemes. Except that the Greyson Wells in my head—the cruel, callous boy who lied about the Persephone, the perfect golden child of a powerful Senator—isn’t the one standing in front of me. This boy is tortured and miserable. He’s as broken as I am.
Even though I know it’s dangerous, I smile at Grey. “I’d love to spend the day with you,” I tell him as I lie to myself that it doesn’t matter whether I acquiesce because it’s in the plan or because I simply want to spend more time with him.
“Excellent!” He starts back up the stairs. “I just have to shower first, if you don’t mind. Should only take about ten minutes.” He glances over his shoulder and realizes I’m not following him.
“You can come up,” he says, laughing. I’d been hoping to get close enough to Grey to gain access to his room, but I hadn’t expected it to come so easily. All those convoluted plans and all I really had to do was stammer and blush.
THIRTY-FIVE
Grey’s room isn’t at all what I’d expected. Not that I’d had a lot of expectations. Even though I’d spent countless hours thinking of Grey, scheming over him, daydreaming about him, I’d never spent much time considering his surroundings.
The rest of the house is so bare and cold I’d figured it would be the same here. But that’s not what I find. Instead, Grey’s room is a riot of color—the walls may be a sparse white but they’re covered with vibrant photographs in ornately gilded frames—every one of them of the ocean.
The one above the bed dominates them all, stretching horizontally across the entire wall. It’s of a giant wave, the tip curling white, and its placement makes it seem as though anyone lying underneath would be in imminent danger of drowning.
I’m mesmerized, sucking in a breath as I walk slowly toward it. Behind me I hear Grey clear his throat and shuffle his feet, uncomfortable. “My parents weren’t very keen on that one,” he says. “Or any of them really.”
I nod, still drawn in by the intense beauty of such destructive power.
I wonder whether it’s there to remind him—every night—of the lies he told. Whether he’s hoped that he can stare at this image enough to erase the truth of what really happened on the Persephone.
“You’d think something that large—that powerful—I’d remember,” I say softly, deciding to push him. When he doesn’t respond, I glance over my shoulder.
His fingers rub at the spot behind his ear. “Right?”
I hold his gaze just a moment longer than is comfortable, and then shift my attention to the other photos crowding the walls. They’re of all different sizes—the sea in every state imaginable: calm, torrid, languorous. And then of course, on the far wall is a large window with a view out toward the beach and the true ocean beyond.
“It’s almost like being adrift,” I murmur, pulling my arms across my chest.
He clears his throat again. “Let me just shower,” he says, moving toward his bathroom. “I won’t be long.”
And then he’s gone, the bathroom door closing solidly between us. But not solid enough that I don’t hear the shuffle of him undressing, his damp shirt falling to the floor. Or the soft sound of the faucets turning, the rush of water through the pipes in the walls.
Or the sound of him stepping beneath the shower spray. The water gathering heavily on his shoulders, trailing down his arms to fall from his elbows and splash against the tiled floor.
Never have I been so acutely aware of the rhythm water makes when showering. How different movements cause the water to fall in different, familiar patterns.
It makes it seem as though there’s no door between us at all. The sound of water gathering, cascading, trailing along the planes, ridges, and hollows of his naked body feels more intimate than if he were standing in front of me wearing nothing at all.
I realize I’m holding my breath as I strain to listen. The tension radiating from me almost palpable enough to taste. You could open the door, Frances whispers. Find your way through the steam, not even bothering to remove your clothes before stepping in with him.
His hands could slide along where your thin shirt molds against your hips. His fingers could find the hem, slowly gather it, inching higher.
It’s such a vivid image that I gasp, shaking my head to dislodge the thought. Almost forcefully, I make myself step away from the bathroom door, already chiding myself for wasting time.
This is too good of an opportunity to squander. As quickly and quietly as possible, I make a pass through his room, searching all the obvious spots, though for what I’m not sure. I’m just hoping that if there’s something here, I’ll know it when I see it.
I pull each drawer from his dresser, carefully pushing aside neatly folded shirts and shorts to search underneath. His scent envelops me, causing my stomach to flip, reminding me that he’s only a few feet away. It only gets worse when I search his bed, sliding hands under his mattress.
Trying not to think about him lying tangled in the sheets at night.
From the bathroom I hear water splashing loudly against tiles, him washing his hair.
My eyes lift to the giant wave curling over his bed. I wonder whether he has nightmares like I do. Whether he thinks about the attack. After our rescue, I’d fled as far from the ocean as I could.
But Grey had brought it closer. Into his room. Practically into his bed. Why?
I lean forward, trailing my fingertips along the churning mass of water. It’s beautiful in its own way, this force that simply exists. That would cause no destruction if we weren’t the ones getting in its way.
And then, on a whim, I curl my nails under the edge of the thick frame, lifting it from the wall. Because isn’t that where the criminal always hides the valuables? Behind me the water cuts off in the bathroom. There’s a beat of silence and then the shower door opening.
Swallowing, I press my head against the wall, eyes scanning behind the picture. My breath catches in my throat. There’s an envelope taped to the back of the frame, near the top.
From the bathroom comes the sound of Grey toweling off and I know I h
ave only seconds left. I reach for the envelope but my arms aren’t long enough. Which is perhaps a good thing because even if I could grab it, it looks too big to hide in the pocket of my shorts.
“Damn,” I growl under my breath.
Footsteps approach the bathroom door. With my heart racing, I carefully let the frame fall back against the wall and practically leap across the room.
When he opens the door, I’m leaning against the window admiring the view of the ocean. Blood rushes through my veins, my breathing rapid and shallow.
But when I glance at him, it’s obvious he doesn’t notice. In fact, he has a difficult time meeting my eyes as crimson flushes his cheeks. I take in the damp towel slung low around his hips. It makes me think of the Persephone—how enraptured I was by that band of skin just above the waist of his swim trunks.
If I ever needed true evidence of how much things have changed, here it is. Whereas before his body showed the gangly promise of adulthood, now that promise has been realized. His torso is a wide expanse of muscles, each dip and curve defined by shadows.
I clear my throat, trying to pull my eyes away from a bead of water as it trails along the side of his neck. Trying not to think about where it will end up after its long slide down his chest and abdomen.
“I’ll, uh, let you get dressed,” I tell him, headed across the room to the hallway. He nods his thanks. As I pass by him, I feel a crackle of tension between us. A slow heat begins its way into my cheeks, mirroring the flush in Grey’s, and I realize that I hadn’t been the only one acutely aware of his nakedness in the shower.
After I close his bedroom door behind me, I pace toward the stairs, collapsing onto the top step. My mind whirls, trying to push thoughts of Grey’s bare chest out of the way so I can focus on what really matters.
The envelope taped to the back of the wave photograph could mean nothing at all; it could be completely unconnected to the Persephone. But somehow I doubt it. The ocean is still keeping his secrets, just as it always has.