I stood on that deck in the rain and let his own words be the last thing that mattered, and I watched him understand that he had, in the end, been undone by the one voice he’d never thought to distrust: his own.

“You thought you’d married a helpless girl,” I said.

I didn’t shout it.

I didn’t have to.

“You forgot whose daughter I am.”

They took the three of them off my father’s yacht in restraints, into the interceptor boats, into the custody of a country whose waters they’d thought would hide them — charged with attempted murder, conspiracy, attempted grand larceny, a stack of felonies tall enough to bury three people for the rest of their lives.

Chapter 14 — Saint Barthélemy to Miami