grip) and then we’re standing inside, out of the storm. The interior is cavernous, a damp stone cathedral. The lake softly laps at the dock under our feet; there’s a rustling coming from up in the eaves. Something huge looms above us in the dark: a yacht, battened down for the winter. The silvery script along its side reads Judybird.
Michael and I stand staring dumbly up at this strange apparition. Then there’s a terrible grinding sound that echoes off the stones and sends me reaching for the gun. But when the spotlights click on overhead I see that it’s just the rusty boat-lift hydraulics, slowly lowering the yacht to the lake’s surface.
Vanessa stands at the edge of the boathouse, her hand on a switch, watching the Judybird sink down, down, down, until finally it’s back in the water and rocking gently in its own wake.
“How about that,” Michael mutters.
I’ve got the gun out again. I keep it loosely trained on Vanessa as she walks around the yacht, unsnapping the protective canvas cover sheathing the back of the boat with surprisingly steady hands. She heaves the cover to the side of the deck, wipes dirt from her cheek, and then turns to us.
“You coming?”
We climb aboard.
* * *
—
The Judybird isn’t an enormous yacht, as far as yachts go, but it’s obvious that it was once a fairly impressive boat, all polished wood and chrome. Neglect has done a number on it. On the Judybird’s upper deck stuffing oozes from cracks in the leather upholstery, and yellow stains mar the paint along the bridge. The aluminum safety bars that line the prow are rusty. An orange lifeboat lies deflated on the lower deck, its wooden oars scattered across the stern.
What kind of people just leave their yacht to rot in the dark? I wonder. Such wasteful decadence. A familiar coil of resentment unspools in my chest and I seize it: Use your anger. I hoist the gun even higher. My hand isn’t sweaty anymore.
A few feet from where we stand in the stern, there’s a door; and when Vanessa opens it, we can see a staircase vanishing down into the darkness. The boat’s cabin. A rank smell—mold, rot, forgotten things—rises up through the open door.
“There are two bedrooms down there, plus a living room and a galley,” Vanessa says. “The bedroom on the right—that’s where the safe is. Just above the vanity, you press the wooden panel and it swings open.”
Michael turns to Vanessa. “What’s the code to the safe?”
“My mother’s birthday: 092757,” she says.
He peers down the stairwell. “It’s dark. Is there power down there?”
“There’s a light switch, at the bottom of the stairs.”
He swivels his head and looks at me. “I’ll go check it out. You keep an eye on her.”
He takes a step down the stairs, ducks his head to avoid the low doorjamb, and lifts his phone over his head. The flashlight sheds a thin blue light into the hallway below. He hesitates, takes one more step—my pulse is going wild—and another and he’s clear of the door and that’s when I kick Michael square in the rear.
He pitches forward, falling down the remaining steps—I catch just one flash of his expression of shock, illuminated by the tumbling light of his phone—and then Vanessa is beside me, heaving the door closed and shoving an oar through the handle to jam it shut.
Vanessa and I stand on the deck staring at each other, motionless, just listening.
There’s a groan, and then a howl of anger. “Bitches!” His voice is muffled. I hear him running up the steps, a lopsided gait—he probably twisted his ankle—and then I can hear him banging on the other side of the door. “Fucking let me out!”
His Irish lilt is finally gone.
I turn to Vanessa. She’s breathing heavily, her fingers clawing at the skin on the back of her hands, leaving bloody welts. “Will the door hold?”