"The knife wounds will confirm it," Isla agreed."But I'd bet everything I have that we're looking at the same killer."She stood, her knees protesting the cold, and turned her attention toward the cabin entrance."Show me this locked door."
They descended into the yacht's interior, and Isla immediately noticed the difference from the commercial vessels they'd boarded before.Where theNorthern DawnandStorm Runnerhad been functional, spartan, designed for work rather than comfort, theMidnight Crossingwas luxury incarnate.Polished teak paneling lined the corridors, brass fixtures gleamed in their flashlight beams, and the furnishings suggested the kind of money that most people only read about.
Frank led them down a narrow corridor toward the bow, past a galley that looked untouched, past a salon where glasses still sat on a bar as if waiting for their owners to return.The normalcy of it was jarring—evidence of lives interrupted mid-motion, of a routine that had been shattered by violence that came without warning.
"Here," Frank said, stopping before a door that looked different from the others.Heavier, with a reinforced frame and a lock that belonged on a bank vault rather than a bedroom.
"This was already locked when you boarded?"Isla asked.
"Yes.We checked every other compartment—all empty, all unlocked.Just this one."
Isla studied the door, her mind racing through possibilities.A locked room on a vessel whose crew had been massacred.Something worth protecting, worth securing even as violence erupted on the deck above.The killer had been thorough—multiple victims, bodies disposed of, yacht left to drift.Had they known about this room?Had they tried to breach it and failed?Or had they simply not cared about whatever lay behind this door?
"Open it," she said.
Frank stepped forward with a breaching tool, positioning it against the door frame."Stand back."
The wood splintered on the first strike, the lock mechanism tearing free from the reinforced frame with a shriek of metal.The door swung inward, revealing darkness beyond.
Isla moved through first, her flashlight leading, her free hand resting on the grip of her service weapon.The beam swept across what appeared to be a small cabin—single bed against one wall, a tiny bathroom visible through a half-open door, no windows, no other exits.
And huddled in the corner, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around herself in a posture of complete terror, was a woman.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The woman couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty, her face streaked with tears that had dried into salt tracks on cheeks too pale, too thin.She flinched when Isla stepped closer, pressing herself harder into the corner of that locked cabin as if she could somehow phase through the bulkhead and escape into the cold waters beyond.
"It's okay," Isla said, keeping her voice soft, her movements slow and deliberate.She holstered her weapon, showing empty hands."I'm FBI.You're safe now.No one is going to hurt you."
The woman's eyes—green, wide with terror—darted between Isla and the doorway where James and Lieutenant Commander Frank waited.Her breath came in shallow, rapid gasps that spoke to a panic attack hovering at the edges of her consciousness, waiting to consume her if she let her guard down for even a moment.
"My name is Isla Rivers," she continued, crouching slowly to bring herself to the woman's level.The cabin was cramped, maybe eight feet by ten, with a single bed that had been slept in and a tiny bathroom visible through a half-open door.No windows.No other exits.A cell disguised as a stateroom."Can you tell me your name?"
A long silence.Then, barely above a whisper: "Madeline.Madeline Holmes."
"Madeline."Isla let the name settle between them, an acknowledgment of humanity in a space that had clearly been designed to strip it away."That's a beautiful name.Madeline, I need you to know that whoever was on this boat—they're gone.They can't hurt you anymore.We're going to get you to shore, get you somewhere warm and safe, and then we're going to figure out what happened here.Does that sound okay?"
Another stretch of silence, punctuated only by the gentle creak of the yacht against her mooring lines.Then Madeline nodded, a jerky motion that seemed to cost her tremendous effort.
"I'm going to have my colleague bring you a blanket," Isla said, glancing back toward the doorway."It's cold, and you've been through something terrible.Is it okay if she comes in?"
Madeline's gaze shifted to Frank, assessing, calculating risk in a way that made Isla's chest ache.This was a young woman who had learned, in whatever nightmare she'd been living, that trust was a currency that could be spent only once and stolen in an instant.Finally, she nodded again.
Frank moved forward with a thermal blanket from the emergency supplies, her movements as careful and unthreatening as Isla's had been.She draped it over Madeline's shoulders without touching her, a small kindness that seemed to crack something in the young woman's armor.The first sob broke through her lips like water through a dam, followed by another, and then she was weeping—great, gulping cries that shook her entire frame.
Isla waited.Sometimes, the most important thing an investigator could do was simply be present, to bear witness to pain without trying to fix it or hurry it along.The questions could wait.The investigation could wait.Right now, this woman needed to know that someone saw her, that her suffering mattered.
When the worst of the storm had passed, Isla spoke again."Madeline, I know this is hard.I know you've been through something that no one should ever have to experience.But anything you can tell me about what happened—anything at all—might help us find the people who did this."
Madeline pulled the blanket tighter around herself, her eyes fixed on some middle distance that held horrors Isla could only imagine."I don't—I don't know what happened.I was in here.They kept me locked in here."
"Who kept you here?"
"The men.The ones who..."She trailed off, her throat working around words that wouldn't come.
"Take your time," Isla said gently.
"They took me."The words came out flat, drained of emotion in a way that spoke to shock rather than calm."Two days ago.Maybe three.I was walking to my car after work.It was dark.I felt something—someone grabbed me from behind.Then there was something over my face, something that smelled sweet, and then..."She shook her head."I woke up here.In this room."
