I fake a smile. “The sun’ll come out tomorrow. Good night, Rachel.”
“Charlie?”
“Yeah?” I stop with my hand on the doorknob to my room.
“I’m sorry the start of your…employment here has been so complicated,” Rachel says. Like Fiona, she struggles to meet my eye. “It won’t always be this way.”
It sure won’t. ’Cause I won’t be here.
“Oh, of course not. It’s okay,” I reply. And then, because maybe she’ll reveal something, I add, “If itwasalways like this though, it would make total sense why Elena quit.”
Rachel’s gaze snaps up, expression stark. I wonder what she would do if I said I found Elena’s bloody phone in the crew cabins.
“Elena quit to pursue other opportunities,” Rachel says. “But Charlie, give it a break, okay? We all miss her. Viv especially. They were really close. It’s hard to talk about her when she doesn’t work here anymore.”
Once again, I can’t determine who onEmpressknows what. This group is locked down. And if I’m going to stay under the radar, I really need to stop asking about the missing influencer.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to smile. “You’re right. Have a good night, Rachel.”
Rachel gives me a strained smile and a wave and then scurries down the corridor, slipping into her room.
I sigh, stepping into my own room. After a cursory inspection, it’s clear nothing is off. No words on the mirror. No ghostly figure lurking in the corners.
I take the opportunity to shower and climb into my sleeping shorts, plugging my useless phone into its charger, in case the Wi-Fi comes back on. I’m almost grateful for the outage. It’s like I told Fiona earlier—I can’t imagine the state of my DMs and notifications. What about my inbox? Are people emailing me? Will I get threats and hate mail? Knowing the internet andASOSAS’s rabid fan base, probably.
I wrap myself in the comforter on the bed, trying to assess the current situation.
Both Fiona and Viv seem to think the recording will give me more opportunities, but I suspect it will only result in hate-follows and a long battle to find any other employment. At least Fiona helped assuage my fears about being taken to court. Small victories, I suppose.
If only there was someone to corroborate my story. But Sage and I were insulated. Close only to each other. She didn’t tell a soul when she was drafting my novel, only announcing it once the ink was dry on the contracts.
My habit of embroiling myself in tight-knit, toxic female friendships is one I’ve only been able to see in hindsight. What is it about me that makes me such an easy target for dominant, manipulative women?
The only good thing is that this final experience with Sage knocked some of the cobwebs loose in my brain. Before, I would have been charmed and inspired by Viv and the others. But now, after Sage’s betrayal and death, I can see the charred edges of their personalities, taste the venom in their words before they poison me. I’m not sticking around this time. I won’t wait around hoping for someone to tell the truth and do the right thing.
The memory of my final conversation with Sage tries to crawl into the forefront of my mind, but I imagine the hurricane gales outside the boat blowing it away. It’s too painful—the good times with Sage are files that have been moved to the trash folder in my mind but not yet permanently deleted. The bad times… Well, those are pop-up ads that I have no control over.
Yet being here is forcing me to remember everything. Even the things I try to bury. No wonder I’m having frightening experiences onboard.
I should have been on that boat with her. In another world, we might have both drowned. It would have been poetic, in a way.
I shove my head into the pile of pillows at the top of my bed and try to focus on my breathing, listening to the whistle of the wind and the patter of rain. The comforter slowly begins to warm withmy body heat, and the storm transitions into an almost-meditative lullaby.
I let myself fade away, lulled by exhaustion and regret.
* * *
I jerk awake to a series of high-pitched shrieks. They cut through the sounds of the storm, which apparently hasn’t abated at all.
I sit bolt upright, noting that the lights in my room are on and there’s vapor pouring from the bathroom. I check my phone—still no service, and apparently, it’s three in the morning.
I swing my feet off the bed and slip from the cocoon of the comforter, staggering over to the bathroom. It’s empty, but the tiny space is damp and humid, steam quickly dissipating as if someone recently turned off the shower. Broken pipe again, maybe?
The scream comes again, and my heart sputters. I thought I dreamed it the first time.
I stumble out of the steamy bathroom and unlock my bedroom door. No one else is in the hallway. Am I the only one who heard screams?
This is a bad idea. I should go back to my room. Someone on this boat smashed up the bridge, intentionally trying to doom us in a storm. I shouldn’t be wandering around alone. But someone is screaming. Someone needs help.
