Chapter 4: The Voice in the Smoke
My father didn't let go of my arm.
“Claire,” he said, barely above a whisper, “what did your mother call you when you were little?””
I stared at him.
“Birdie.””
His eyes hardened.
“Your mother never told Graham that name.””
“No.””
“Then whoever just called you knows something they shouldn't.””
Another metallic bang shook the yacht.
Smoke rolled through the corridor, thick and gray.
The red emergency lights painted everything the color of blood.
Somewhere below us, an alarm screamed continuously.
I heard footsteps.
Fast.
Coming toward us.
Dad pushed me behind him.
“Stay back.””
A figure appeared through the smoke.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dark clothes.
Graham.
At least, it looked like Graham.
He stopped several feet away.
“Claire,” he called.
His voice sounded exactly right.
But then he smiled.
And I knew.
Something was wrong.
Not because of his face.
Because of his eyes.
Graham's eyes had always been the first thing I noticed about him. Warm brown. Soft when he smiled.
These eyes looked almost black beneath the red emergency lights.
Dad raised his weapon.
“Don't come any closer.””
The man stopped.
“Robert, it's me.””
Dad didn't lower the weapon.
“No.””
The man's expression changed.
“What?””
“You're not my son-in-law.””
The man smiled.
“That's a serious accusation.””
Dad's voice remained steady.
“Where did you meet my daughter?””
The figure stared at me.
I felt cold despite the heat from the smoke.
“Claire?””
I said nothing.
Dad asked again.
“Where did you meet her?””
The man hesitated.
Only for a second.
But it was enough.
I knew Graham would have answered immediately.
At a charity auction.
Three years ago.
He'd spilled champagne on my dress.
Then spent twenty minutes apologizing.
The man in the corridor said:
“At a restaurant.””
Dad's eyes narrowed.
“Wrong.””
The figure stepped backward.
Dad fired.
The bullet struck the metal railing beside him.
The man disappeared into the smoke.
“Run!”” Dad shouted.
We ran.
The yacht tilted sharply beneath our feet.
I slammed against the wall.
Dad caught me.
“Are you okay?””
“Yes.””
“Keep moving.””
We reached the emergency compartment near the forward deck.
One of the security men was already there.
He pulled open the steel door.
“Inside!””
We crowded into the small room.
The second guard appeared seconds later.
He was breathing hard.
“Where's Victor?””
“Missing,” Dad said.
“And Helena?””
“Also missing.””
The guard locked the door.
For a moment, all we could hear was the storm.
Rain hammered the yacht.
Waves struck the hull with enough force to make the walls vibrate.
I looked at Dad.
“Who was that?””
“I don't know.””
“You said he wasn't Graham.””
“I know my son-in-law.””
I stared at him.
“You're sure?””
Dad looked at me.
“Claire, I watched that man grow up.””
He lowered his weapon.
“Graham has a scar on his left wrist.””
I remembered.
A small pale line.
From a childhood accident.
Dad continued.
“The man outside didn't.””
My stomach twisted.
“So where is Graham?””
Nobody answered.
Then the emergency radio crackled.
A man's voice came through.
“Claire.””
I froze.
It was Graham.
This time, there was no doubt.
His voice came through the speaker.
“Can you hear me?””
Dad reached for the radio.
“Where are you?””
A laugh.
“That's not important.””
“Tell me where my daughter is safe.””
“Safe?””
Graham chuckled.
“She's standing right beside you, isn't she?””
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Dad looked at me.
The radio crackled again.
“Claire, I know you can hear me.””
I leaned toward it.
“Graham?””
Dad caught my wrist.
But I spoke anyway.
“What do you want?””
Silence.
Then:
“You.””
My heart pounded.
“Why?””
“Because you weren't supposed to wake up.””
“I know.””
“You were supposed to be unconscious by eleven.””
“I stopped taking the pills.””
A long silence.
Then Graham whispered:
“I knew it.””
Dad's face changed.
“You knew?””
Graham laughed.
“I knew something was wrong when she started pretending.””
My breath caught.
He had known.
All along.
Every weak step.
Every sleepy expression.
Every time I'd pretended to be dizzy.
He'd been watching.
“Then why didn't you stop me?”” I asked.
“Because I wanted to know who you'd call.””
My stomach dropped.
Dad looked at me.
Graham continued.
“You see, Claire, the pills weren't the most important part of the plan.””
“What was?””
“Your father.””
Dad stepped closer to the radio.
“Leave my daughter out of this.””
“Robert, you're already in it.””
The voice became colder.
“You've been in it for years.””
I looked at Dad.
“What does that mean?””
He didn't answer.
Graham did.
“Ask your father about the Whitmore acquisition.””
Dad's face went completely still.
I felt something shift between us.
“Dad?””
“Don't listen to him.””
“What acquisition?””
Graham laughed.
“You really never told her?””
Dad said nothing.
“Interesting.””
Graham's voice softened.
“Claire, your father isn't the innocent man you think he is.””
“Stop.””
“Ask him why my father lost everything.””
Victor.
I remembered him screaming earlier.
You have no idea what you're doing.
I looked at Dad.
“What is he talking about?””
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“Not now.””
“Dad.””
The yacht lurched again.
Something heavy crashed above us.
The emergency lights flickered.
Graham spoke through the radio.
“You want the truth?””
Dad reached for the radio.
But Graham continued.
“Then open the compartment door.””
“No.””
“Open it, Robert.””
“Go to hell.””
A soft laugh.
“Then your daughter dies.””
I stepped forward.
Dad grabbed me.
“No.””
Graham said:
“You have five minutes.””
The radio went dead.
Everyone stared at Dad.
I pulled my arm away.
“What did he mean?””
Dad looked exhausted.
“There's something I should have told you.””
Before he could continue, the security guard shouted.
“Sir!””
He pointed toward the small monitor above the emergency controls.
The yacht's security cameras had come back online.
One by one, screens flickered to life.
The bridge.
Empty.
The engine room.
Smoke.
The rear deck.
Empty.
Then the camera outside our emergency compartment.
A figure stood directly in front of the door.
Graham.
He lifted his face toward the camera.
And smiled.
Then he held up a photograph.
My mother's photograph.
The one taken the week before she died.
On the back, in my mother's handwriting, were three words.
*ASK HIM WHY.*
Dad stared at it.
I stared at Dad.
And suddenly, the murder plot felt like only the beginning.
May you like
Because Graham wasn't just trying to kill me.
He was forcing my father to confess to something my entire family had buried for twenty years.
