“All right, Son. I’ll come soon.”
He leads her away, the sounds of her heartbroken crying tearing at my soul and leaving behind a stain like a rusty hook.
“She’s strong,” Mal adds.
“She is. But I wish she didn’t have to be. This is all my fault.”
“That’s not true, so cut that shit out now, you hear me? It was an accident. A fucking awful accident. You couldn’t have done anything differently. No one could.” He runs a hand around his jaw, tears welling in his deep brown eyes. Eyes I’ve looked into countless times working together over the years.
Eyes so much like his sister’s. Eyes that gave me three beautiful children and thirty years of marriage.
I swallow down the bile burning its way up my throat.
Mal stares into the first grave.
Hers.
“It should have been me. Not them. It should have damn well been me,” I murmur.
As if to prove my point, my arm throbs beneath my jacket sleeve, the heat blazing a trail up the left side of my torso, culminating at my collarbone. I hiss out a rough curse, relishing the pain.
I deserve it. I didn’t save them.
Mal dips his head in respect at the graves, then squeezes my shoulder. “You want more time?”
I nod, unable to form words as emotion clogs up my throat.
He steps away, leaving me staring at two holes in the ground where what’s left of my wife and son are. The two mounds of earth piled either side sit ready, waiting to fill the holes. Allow them to be broken down and sucked back into the earth. Feed the flowers I know Sinclair will come and plant here in spring.
The circle of life.
What a goddamn joke.
Denver approaches, keeping a respectable distance so I can mourn in private.
After a few minutes, I turn and meet his eyes.
“Everyone’s gone, Boss. I sent the rest of the team to the hotel with the guests.”
I nod.
Like me, Denver’s chosen to go without an umbrella. The rain falls over his dark brown hair, dropping from his chin onto his black wool coat.
“Just family left, huh?” I ask, looking past him to the two remaining cars. Mal’s waiting by the side of one, and I can make out a hazy blur of blonde hair through the rain coated back window of the other, where Sinclair’s sitting with Sullivan.
Denver clears his throat. “What can I do?”
I stare into his eyes. “Help me find out who’s responsible. The yacht manufacturer, the crew onboard… I need to know what happened.”
“Yes, Boss.”
I turn back to my family’s graves, pulling their faces from my memories.
Smiling. Laughing. Alive.
I ease my diamond signet ring over my knuckle, studying the intricate ‘B’ logo on it.
Beaufort Diamonds.Our family’s empire.
