“In my bathroom. It was taped to the mirror.”
Beth frowns, letting the note fall to the table. “You’re making this up.Youwrote this.”
Gigi gapes at Beth. “Why would I do that?”
Beth pushes the note toward Emma. “For ‘content.’ Why else?” Beth rubs her forearms, probably trying to quell the goose bumps beneath her sweatshirt. Despite her calm demeanor, I can tell she’s just as freaked out as the rest of us.
Emma turns, her steely gaze boring into Gigi’s. She lifts the note. “Tell us the truth. Did you write this?”
Gigi throws her hands in the air. I instinctively lean back to avoid getting whacked in the face. “No! I already told you. It was taped to the mirror in my bathroom. Why would I make that up?”
From the look of affronted shock on Gigi’s face, I’m inclined to believe her, as much as I don’t want to. She can’t be that desperate for content. Faking a note from Courtney and accusing one of us of murder would be a new low, even for Gigi.
But if Gigi didn’t write it, who did? Beth and I are the only ones who know what happened in the woods that day. Aren’t we? My gaze falls to the note, penned in blue ink, and my blood runs cold, as if every vessel in my body just froze.
Courtney signed my yearbook the exact same way:XO, Courtney. It’s been over a decade since I’ve looked at it, but I instantly recognize the small loop at the top of theCand the curve at the top of theT. The room spins, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. If someonehasforgedit, they’ve done an excellent job at mimicking Courtney’s handwriting. There’s no way it could really be her. Could it?
Emma sniffs the note, then lifts it toward Beth’s nose. “Do you smell that?”
Beth inhales. “Smell what?”
“Courtney’s perfume,” Emma says. “The one she was always dousing herself with.”
“Let me smell.” Gigi snatches the note from Beth and takes a whiff. “I don’t smell it.”
I lower my nose toward the note until it nearly touches the paper and inhale deeply. It’s faint, but Emma is right. I caught a subtle whiff of Courtney’s “signature scent” on the paper.Ocean Dream,I recall with a shiver. “I smell it too.”
Emma swipes the note from Gigi’s grip as the door to the deck flaps open and a gust of cold wind fills our small space. I turn as the captain comes down the steps, his hair and shirt soaked. He shuts the door behind him and crosses his arms. His grave expression mirrors the rest of ours.
“This storm is much worse than what was predicted.”
“Wait.” Beth holds up her hands. “A storm was predicted?” She turns to Gigi. “Did you know about this?”
Gigi shrugs. “Just that it might get rough. But nothing to worry about.”
“I wasn’t expecting anything this bad, but the Gulf of Alaska spins up storms fast and sometimes unpredictably. Especially this time of year.” The captain’s mouth turns to a frown. “But I did tell you it could getveryrough. And you assured me that wouldn’t be a problem for anyone.”
Beth gapes at Gigi. “And you didn’t tell us?”
I remember Gigi’s tense words with the captain before we left Seattle, now certain they hadn’t been talking about the menu.
“Shouldn’t we turn back now?” I ask. “This already seems really bad.” Plus, after the note, all I want is to get off this boat and go home.
“We can’t go back!” At the table, Gigi’s mouth hangs open as if we’d slapped her. “I’m contracted to give my sponsor two weeks of live footage—I don’t have nearly enough content yet. I don’t get paid unless I do the whole trip. They want to follow us all the way to San Diego with live streams every day. My followers, I’ve promised them—”
“You won’t be giving them any content if we capsize in a storm, Gigi.” Emma crosses her arms, the note still in her hand. “You can’t risk our lives for yourfashion blog.”
Gigi shoots Emma a sharp look. “I’m alifestyleinfluencer, not just fashion.”
Emma rolls her eyes. “Whatever, same thing.”
I don’t see how any of them, even Gigi, would want to continue the trip now.
The captain shakes his head, his face serious. “The storm is setting us west and pushing us away from the Washington and Oregon coastlines. If we turn back now, we’ll be facing the waves head-on and stuck in this weather—and possibly worse—our entire way back, if we can even make it back. We’re better off to stay our course and let it blow over.”
As we rock to the side, a spray of white water splashes against the window above the kitchen cabinets. Instinctively, I grab Beth’s knee for support. She jumps.
“Sorry,” I tell her.
