window. She could not bear to look out at the lights of St Thomas’s capital: Charlotte Amalie. The sight of them made her feel short of breath, as if she could feel her daughter’s panic. Shelby’s stomach heaved as she imagined Chloe falling overboard, hurtling into the water. Despite what everyone had told her, she continued to wonder if perhaps Chloe had survived the plunge from the deck to the water. And then . . . what? Had she struggled to the surface only to see the huge ship, unaware of her plight, steaming on its way to the next port, deaf to her cries? Perhaps, frightened and desperate, Chloe saw those faraway lights of the harbor and tried to swim towards them, barefoot in her yellow dress, her curly hair streaming behind her. Did the hopelessness of her situation dawn on her as she swam, her arms weary, her heart heavy, as she made little progress? Was she full of regret, like a mermaid who realized too late that she had foolishly traded her tail for the dream of love with an indifferent mortal? At the thought of it, Shelby’s soul could not contain her anguish, and she let out an unearthly groan of pain and misery.
A rap on her door turned her groan to a cry, and she stared fearfully at the door.
‘Mrs Sloan?’
Shelby walked to the door and opened it. The innkeeper, Christophe, stood at her door holding a tray. There was a bowl of fragrant soup, a glass of wine and a basket with some bread.
‘But, I didn’t . . .’
‘Chief Giroux said to make sure you had something to eat,’ said Christophe firmly. He did not ask if he could come in, but simply walked past her, crossed through the room and set the tray down on the small table on the balcony.
‘There,’ he said. ‘It’s soup. It will go down easily.’
Shelby looked around, flustered, for her purse. She didn’t know whether to offer the man a tip or not.
Christophe understood what she was doing and strode past her into the hallway. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Accept our hospitality. This is a terrible day for you. Perhaps when you eat you’ll feel a bit better.’
The smell of the soup caused a twisting of hunger in her stomach. Shelby hung her head. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
Christophe waved away her thanks and began to descend the stairs to the first floor. ‘If you need anything, call the desk,’ he said.
Shelby closed the door and went out on to the balcony. She sat down in the chair and looked at the simple, lovely tray in front of her. She felt tears rising to her eyes again. Like a dam once breeched, tears trembled at the surface and seemed to spill over at will. Shelby took a deep breath, broke off a golden crust of the bread and dipped it into the soup. After the first bite, she picked up the spoon and began to eat and take a few sips of the wine.
There was another tentative knock on her door. She turned in her chair.
‘Shelby, are you there?’ asked a familiar voice. ‘It’s Rob. Can I come in?’
She hesitated, then walked over to the door and opened it. Her son-in-law, pale, disheveled and with a heavy five o’clock shadow, seemed to be propping himself up against the door-frame with one arm.
‘Is there any news?’ she said.
Rob shook his head.
Shelby turned away from the door, leaving it open behind her. She walked back out to the tiny balcony and sat down in her chair. Rob hesitated a moment, and then came into the room, closing the door behind him. He walked out to the balcony also and put a hand on the back of the other chair. ‘May I?’ he asked.
Shelby nodded, but said nothing.
Rob sat down gingerly on the small chair and looked at her tray of food.
‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.
Rob shrugged. ‘Someone at the station got me a sandwich.’
Shelby nodded, and broke off another corner of bread. She stared at it, wondering if she had the strength to chew it. ‘Did they say anything more?’
Rob shook his head ‘Nobody is stating it outright, but I think they’re ready to rule it an accident. They think that Chloe fell over the railing . . .’
Shelby glared at him. ‘Because you said she had a drinking problem.’
Rob took a deep breath. ‘I know it’s upsetting to you, but it’s true,’ he insisted. ‘I’m sorry, but it is’
‘I don’t