“I’m sorry,” she says.
He nods. “It’ll be okay. I’m sure it’ll be fine. How can a ship like that completely sink? It can’t. Not these days—surely?”
Arrabella suddenly recalls a story her magazine ran once—about the sinking of theCosta Concordiaseven years ago, off Isola del Giglio, Italy. A ship this bighasgone down before, in recent maritime history. Itcanhappen.
She doesn’t say this. Instead, she touches his arm. “You’re right. I’m sure it’ll be fine. They’ll all get off okay.” She hesitates. “What’s your son’s name?”
“Carter. He—” His voice catches. “He’s eight.” He gives a shaky smile. “Small for his age, but sure as hell makes up for it in spunk.”
“I think I saw him on the ship.”
“Youwere on board?”
“Earlier. I got off in Crete. Supposed to be rejoining my fiancé in the morning.”
They stand shoulder to shoulder among the growing crowds along the rim—two strangers connected by an unfolding tragedy in the gusting, windy darkness, watching as the drama unfolds across the water, as the crippled ship lists more and more into the cliffs.
Poppy
Poppy is half carried by Patrick out onto the sloping deck. He has her arm hooked around his neck, and he stays bent over, supporting her as they stagger forward.
Outside is a cacophony of chaos. Helicopters thud overhead. Massive searchlights sweep over the deck and the sea. Alarms bleat. Diesel engines from rescue boats roar in the surging water below the ship. She can hear metal booms, thuds, and groaning. People call out names—crying, frightened, panicked. Guests scramble sideways on the canted deck, slipping, clawing, trampling over others as some fall and others push and shove to reach the lifeboats first.
Patrick guides her into the seething crowd. She winces as a man’s elbow jams into her ribs while he forces past her. There’s no one in control. A crew member in uniform is shouting orders, but few are listening—or can’t hear him, or are so panicked that nothing is going to dissuade them bulldozing over weaker guests to secure a place in a lifeboat.
Patrick angles Poppy toward a raft being loaded.
A woman pushes through, shouting, “Carter! Carter! Where are you!”
She’s sobbing, raw desperation in her eyes. She has blood all over her evening gown. Her hair is wet. She grabs Patrick’s arm. “Have you seen my son? He’s eight. He’s really small for his age?”
“I’m sorry—”
“Oh God, has anyone seen my boy?” she screams. “He’s eight! Blond! His name is Carter! Please, anyone seen my son?”
Patrick reaches for her arm and steadies her. “What’s your name?” he asks as they’re jostled among the surging mass of people clawing for places on rafts.
“Sarah.”
“Sarah—where did you see him last?”
“I lost hold of his hand in the commotion outside the theater, when the ship struck something and tilted, and all the lights went out. Everyone went sliding and screaming and I couldn’t see him. He—he’s so small.”
“Stay with Poppy here. Hold each other’s hands. Don’t let go. Keep moving toward the lifeboat. I’ll go look for your boy.”
Tears and mascara stream down her cheeks. She shakes her head. “I can’t—I won’t get on the raft without my son. I won’t.”
“You need to stay in one place, so he—we—can find you.” He takes her hand and places it in Poppy’s. “Poppy, hold on to Sarah. Okay?”
Poppy looks into his eyes. They’re fierce with determination. His features are tight with resolve. She believes him. She believes he will do anything he can. He is made from DNA that gives him empathy. He can’t escape from that—she can see it now. Patrick is simply wired to help others, and his empathy is either his downfall, or strength.
“Understand?” he says.
She nods. It hurts her head.
He starts to push away through the wall of frightened people.
“Patrick!”
