to be silenced. But silenced for how long? Locked up here until . . . what? Some prearranged deadline had passed?
Or silenced . . . permanently?
Supper was white fish in a sort of cream sauce, with boiled potatoes. It was cold, congealing around the edges, but I was hungry. Before I ate I looked at the pill in my hand, wondering what to do. It was half my normal dose. I could take the whole pill now, or I could split it, and start building up a reserve in case . . . but in case what? I could hardly escape, and if Anne decided to stop dispensing the pills, I would run out long before she took pity on me.
In the end, I gulped down the whole thing, reasoning that I had a deficit to make up. I could start biting them in half tomorrow, if it seemed important. I felt better almost immediately, though I knew, logically, that it couldn’t be the pills. They didn’t absorb that fast, and the effect took a while to build up in my system. Whatever I was experiencing was completely placebo-based. At this point, though, I didn’t care. I would take what I could get.
Then I started picking at the lukewarm supper. As I sat on the bunk, chewing the tepid, gluey potato slowly, in an effort to make it less unappealing, I tried to rearrange the pieces of the puzzle I had assembled so painstakingly inside my head.
I knew now what that derisive snort meant when I had said Who is it up to? Ben?
Poor Ben. I felt a rush of guilt that I had been so quick to judge him, and then another rush, this time of anger. I’d been so focused on Anne’s chance mention of a male accomplice that it had never occurred to me that Anne herself might have been the one to run quickly down the spa stairs while her varnish was supposed to be drying and scrawl those words. Stupid, stupid Lo.
But stupid Ben, too. If he hadn’t spent so many years belittling my feelings and if he hadn’t been so eager to spill the beans to Nilsson, instead of supporting my story, then I might not have been so quick to jump to conclusions.
I knew now who he was. It must be Richard Bullmer. He owned the boat. And of all the men on the ship, I could imagine him planning and carrying out a murder better than anyone else. Certainly better than fat, fussy Alexander or the lumbering, bearlike Nilsson.
Except that no murder had taken place. Why did I have to keep reminding myself of that fact? Why was it so hard to grasp?
Because you’re here, I thought. Because whatever you saw—whatever happened in that cabin—it was important enough that they would lock you up here and prevent you from going to see the police at Trondheim. What had happened? It must be something so high-stakes that they simply couldn’t afford to let me talk about it. Was it smuggling? Were they throwing something overboard to an accomplice?
It’ll be you next, you stupid bitch, said the voice inside my head, and an image of myself falling through deep water shot through me, like an electric shock deep in my skull.
I winced and gritted my teeth, forcing myself to swallow another glutinous mouthful of potato. The ship heaved, and nausea swilled around in the pit of my stomach.
What was going to happen to me? There were only two possibilities—they were going to let me go at some point. Or they were going to kill me. And somehow, the first one didn’t seem very likely anymore. I knew so much. I knew about Anne. I knew she wasn’t nearly as ill as she pretended. And they could not afford for me to get out and tell my story—a story of kidnap, imprisonment, and bodily harm—though would anyone believe me?
I touched my fingers to my cheek, where the blood was still caked from where she’d whacked me into the doorframe. I felt suddenly gross—dirty and sweaty and blood-smeared. Anne—judging by her previous timings—wouldn’t be back for hours.
There wasn’t much I could do to improve my lot, stuck in this two-meter coffin. But at least I could keep myself clean.
The jet was nothing like the one in my suite upstairs. Even turned up full it was a tepid trickle, but I stood underneath it for so long I felt my fingers wrinkle into mush. The clotted blood