They Drank My Father’s Champagne and Toasted My Death. They Forgot Whose Daughter I Am

Somewhere below the fog, my heart had begun to pound so hard I was sure they’d hear it through the floor.

“Then we move tonight?” A woman this time — soft, satisfied.

Fiona.

My mother-in-law, who had cried at the wedding, who called me sweet girl, who had fastened her own grandmother’s bracelet around my wrist and told me I was family now.

“Tonight,” Flynn said.

“There’s weather coming in after midnight — a real squall.

The crew will all be below.

I’ll walk her up to the aft deck, tell her the fresh air will help her stomach.” A pause, and when he went on his voice hadn’t changed at all, and that was the worst thing, that it cost him nothing.