There’s also a photo of the three of us from nearly fifteen years ago: Clifford, me, and Tully—lined up from tallest to shortest, with Clifford on the left, me in the middle, and Tully on the right.
“Do you remember who took this photo?” I hold it up for Tully to see.
“It was Maxi, with your father’s old Kodak camera.” Tully takes the picture from my hands. “He still has that camera.”
“Why do you have these?” I gesture to the photos scattered across the cabin floor.
“They were in my camera bag. I didn’t know they were there,” Tully replies defensively.
Suddenly, the hull dips sharply, tossing us sideways.
“What kind of godawful storm is this?” Tully exclaims.
“Calm down. It’s just a storm.” I look at him with concern. Tully has never acted this way about anything. I can’t remember ever seeing him scared, except around spiders or the day he found Clifford’s note. “What’s bothering you?”
“Drowning,” he replies flatly.
“Stop joking. What’s on your mind?”
“Did you know the SSPrincesscapsized in Kingston Harbour two months ago?” Tully places the old photos into his camera bag. “Several passengers and some crew members died.”
“We’ll be through this storm before we reach Kingston Harbour.” I lean forward and gaze intently into his eyes. “That won’t happen to us. We’ve had enough bad luck.”
“Strong winds and turbulent waters.” Tully inspects his camera lenses with fingers that tremble slightly. “There’s no telling what might happen next.”
What’s going on with him? The way he’s speaking suggests something more than just seasickness. “Did you take something? I have some scopolamine tablets.”
“I brought a bag of candied ginger, but it’s not helping.”
“Let’s talk about something other than the storm or the photos. Concentrate on something beyond how you feel,” I suggest.
He frowns. “That won’t work.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s all I’ve been doing lately—feeling things. Besides, I can’t think of anything else.”
“I can,” I say. “I telegrammed Maxi yesterday about Clifford’s note.”
“Oh, you did?”
“I told you I would. That note is why you can’t think of anything else and can hardly talk to me.”
“I’m talking to you now.”
“Not with affection. Not with love. There’s nothing but tension between us. I expected you at least to be civil while we’re on this trip.”
“You’re still upset about the train ride,” he says. “I was hungover. I didn’t have the energy to discuss the note, your father, or any of it.”
The ship tilts to one side. We brace ourselves, palms flat on the floor, our arm muscles tightening to avoid being flung across the stateroom. Tully turns an unpleasant shade of gray.
“Are you going to be sick?” I reach for him.
“No.” He chews his lower lip. “Maybe.” He swallows nervously. “What would Maxi know about a note from Clifford?”
“Maxi has known all three of us for decades.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t tell her about the day we found it.”
