Page 109 of When the Sky Breaks

“You think they’re related?” I asked.

“I think we need to talk to Ansel right now,” Neal replied, helping me up and heading for the stairs.

We found Ansel in the smoking room. He’d been hiding out there most days. Guinevere—apparently—hated the smell of cigars.

“Ansel, we have a problem,” Neal said.

“Also maybe a lead?” I added. “You know those orphan children we’ve been seeing most afternoons?”

Ansel nodded, not looking up from his book and his whiskey.

“One of them disappeared last night,” Neal said. “Same time Sorcha woke up because of the wildlife disturbance.”

“And we’re positive they didn’t wander off and get lost? Fall overboard? Or any of the other three dozen natural ways a lone, poorly supervised child could disappear on a boat like this?” Ansel still hadn’t looked up.

“Well no,” Neal admitted, “but it’s worth investigation. Don’t you think?”

“Once is a coincidence,” Ansel said. “Bring me a pattern and we’ll talk.”

It was another four days, but soon a pattern emerged. First the woman Lucy shared a bunk with disappeared, then another of the kids. All at the same time of night. On the fourth morning at breakfast it was clear something was wrong. The staff were jumpy, avoiding eye contact. Eventually Ansel asked what had happened, and our waiter replied like he was reading his own death warrant. “One of the cleaners went missing.”

“That’s a pattern,” I said, stirring my tea.

“Don’t look so self-satisfied,” Ansel cautioned. “Neither of you are getting a proper eight-hours sleep tonight. We investigate. Together.”

“We’ll nap before dinner to compensate,” I said. “Now you go start asking around. Find out where this cleaner disappeared from. If we can find a location we might actually be onto something.”

Forty-Six

Neal

“Ithink one of the engineers is doing it,” Ansel said, slamming open my and Sorcha’s bedroom door at one o’clock that morning.

“Will you ever learn to knock?” I muttered, groggy. Sorcha just pressed her face into my shoulder and tried to keep sleeping.

“I’ve spent the last seven hours talking to everyone below decks,” Ansel said. “The cleaners. Anyone in steerage who could speak English. The engineers. And everyone agrees about the disappearances. How it was horrible. Traumatizing. Who it was. When they left. Where it happened.”

Ansel paused.

“And?” I prompted.

“Except the engineers,” he continued. “They just insist nothing happened. That they don’t know.”

“So now we go snoop around the engine room?” I asked, still groggy, still trying to coax Sorcha properly awake.

“Now we go snoop around the engine room,” Ansel said. “Now get up. There’s work to do.”

“Why is there always work to do late and on a stupid boat,” Sorcha muttered as she scrambled to her feet and grabbed her dress.

The reek of blood was the first clue. Strong enough I passed Sorcha a handkerchief immediately, wishing I had something to douse it in to cut the smell. The stench clung to all the lower decks, getting stronger as we neared the engine room. By the time we reached the reinforced steel door it clung like a physical presence.

And that was when I spotted the splatters.

Not a few drops of blood, but a consistent trail, dripping from beneath the engine room door, but leading away, out toward the water.

“Did they kill someone in there?” Sorcha asked.

“Possibly,” Ansel replied, voice low, focused.