Daughter of Deep Silence (3 page)

It takes a moment for this information to take shape in my mind. For the implications of it to settle in. The coast guard called off the search days ago. When Libby and I were still out there. When we both still had a chance to be rescued alive.

All because of Senator Wells and Grey. Because they lied.

I don’t even realize that I’m screaming until firm hands pull me from the TV. My fists flail at it and smears of red mar the screen, blood from where I’d ripped out my IV in my scramble from the bed.

“They’re lying,” I shout, still flailing. “The ship was attacked. There was no wave. It was men with guns—they killed everyone!”

A crewman holds me steady as the medic slips a needle into my arm. “Shh,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

“No,” I whimper, shaking my head. But everything feels so much heavier now. My protests, fuzzy and indistinct. “You don’t understand.” He carries me to the bed, and when he tries to leave, I fumble for his wrist, holding him. “You have to believe me. They’re lying. Please.” A tear leaks from my eye, the first since I’ve been rescued.

He gently frees himself. “It’s okay,” he says softly, pulling another blanket over me. “You’re safe now.”

But I know that’s not true. May never be true again. “
They killed them all and sank the ship
,” I whisper, my voice weakening.
“They killed my parents.”
It comes out slurred.
“Please believe me.”

I
t’s still dark when I wake again. The yacht rides the swell of the waves, rocking me gently. And I suddenly realize how strange it is to be alone. Not just here in this room, but in life. There is no one who cares about where I am right now. No one to notice whether I come home or not.

There is no one in charge of me, to tell me what to do. Where to go. How to recover. As the breadth of my isolation yawns open ahead of me, I begin to tremble. I will no longer live in my house. Sleep in my bed. Pull clothes out of my dresser. Brush my teeth in my bathroom. Leave shoes lying at the base of the stairs.

Where will I live, I have no idea. A foster home? Do they even have orphanages anymore? The thoughts come faster and faster, tumbling over one another, inciting panic. I find myself wheezing, the room spinning.

My parents are gone. My life is gone. Everything. Everything—it’s all gone.

I pull free of the IV again and push from the bed, stumbling toward the door. I ache for anything familiar, someone to tell me it will be okay. But there’s no one left.

Greyson Wells
, a voice whispers in the back of my head and an image of him from the TV flashes in my mind. My stomach roils, and if there’d been anything in it, I’d have vomited.

I shuffle down the hallway, fingertips pressed against the wall to keep myself steady. My steps are halting, pained, and I don’t even realize what I’m searching for until I’m there. Standing in the doorway.

She’s on the bed, an insignificant lump under the crumpled covers. Her back is toward me, the sharp tips of her wing bones barely visible under the stretch of her shirt.

Libby.
Even dead I feel that pull to her, the connection that drew us tighter and tighter as our lives slipped through our hungry fingers and into the ocean. Her blistered cheeks are masked by a tangle of hair, and I want to tuck it behind her ear. She hated it in her face. But even as I stretch my fingers toward her temple, I know I can’t bring myself to actually touch her. Doing so would make it real.

“
It should be you standing here
,” I whisper, my fingertips hovering a breath away from the curve of her jaw. She had family and friends waiting for her. I have nothing.

“You remind me of her,” a quiet voice says from the doorway. My heart jumps and I stumble, spinning to press my back against the wall. Libby’s father stands just across the threshold.

“When they pulled you in,” he continues, stepping into the room, “I thought you were my Libby at first.” He sighs and gestures toward a chair. I sink into it and he takes the one facing me. “Frances Mace, right?” he asks. The words come out weary, the sound of them as heavy and thick as the bags under his eyes. I nod.

“Your family was on the
Persephone
as well?”

I nod again.

“And they didn’t make it?”

It’s cold in the room, the air-conditioning running full blast, and I cross my arms tightly over my chest as I shake my head.

“How old are you?

“Just turned fourteen,” I mumble.

“Where are you from?”

I tap my fingers against my thumb, nervous. “Small town south of Columbus, Ohio, sir.”

“You have family there?”

My fingers still and I stare at them, motionless, in my lap. “No, sir.” I take a sharp breath. “My parents were both only children.”

“Any siblings? Grandparents?” He’s frowning.

I shake my head. “There’s no one.” Clearing my throat I test the word out for the first time: “I’m an orphan.” It’s horrible, making my stomach churn.

His lips purse together as he ponders this.

“It wasn’t a wave,” I blurt into the silence. I lift my eyes, watching confusion flicker across his face. I lean forward, needing him to understand. “The
Persephone
was attacked. They killed everyone on board.” My voice breaks and I swallow, trying to hold the memories at bay.

The guns. The blood. The screaming. God, the screaming.

“The coast guard interviewed Senator Wells and his son and there hasn’t been any mention of armed men or—”

“They’re lying,” I interject bitterly.

He shakes his head. “Why would they lie about something like that?”

It’s the question I’ve been asking myself; one I don’t have an answer to. So instead I lift a shoulder and tell him the only explanation I could come up with. “Maybe they were somehow involved. The attackers weren’t wearing masks. Maybe they’re afraid that because they’re witnesses those same men will come after them.”

It sounds even more far-fetched when I say it aloud and a blush flares up my neck.

But Libby’s father doesn’t laugh. He considers the idea for a moment. “And you,” he adds. I glance up at him sharply. “If you’re also a witness,” he clarifies, “it stands to reason they’d come after you as well.” It’s not clear whether he believes it’s a possibility or is merely placating me.

A chill tightens the skin between my shoulder blades. But what I feel more than anything else is exhaustion. For the past week all I’ve done is fight to stay alive. The prospect of having to keep up that fight is overwhelming.

My eyes flick toward Libby and I find that a part of me is jealous of her. That she was able to escape. How nice it would be to slide into oblivion. “It’s not like I won’t be hard to find,” I mumble.

There’s silence for a moment, the only sound our breathing. Confirmation that we’re alive and Libby is not. “Do you know if my wife . . . if Barbara . . .” He trails off, unable to ask the question.

My eyes flutter shut, the memory coming against my will.

The screaming doesn’t stop. Neither do the gunshots. I curl into a ball, arms over my head as though that will make it all go away. But it won’t.

All I see over and over in my mind is my mother kneeling on the floor of our room across the hall, tendrils of blood writhing like venomous snakes across the front of her shirt. Her eyes wide as she glances toward the dumbwaiter—terror not for herself but for the fact that the gunman might discover my hiding place.

And now she’s broken. She and my dad both. And I’m next if they find me. But moving is unthinkable. What if they hear me? What if they see me? What if they kill me?

The smoke billowing down the hallway grows thicker, dark tendrils coming for me in my little metal box. I choke on the terror of being trapped and press the up button, cringing at the sound of grinding gears. When it wrenches to a stop at the top I wait, hand over my mouth, for someone to find me.

Nothing happens and I force myself to run. The silence in the hallway is shrouded in cotton, thickening the air so that it feels like moving through water. It’s only a few yards to the O’Martin’s suite and I blow through the doors.

And she’s there—Libby—like she’s been waiting for me. She’s halfway into the next room, already running for the balcony.

Someone bangs on the door behind me, screaming to get inside to safety. I hesitate, not knowing what to do, but there’s panic in the woman’s voice and I open it to find Libby’s mother. In her eyes there’s that heartbeat of relief.

Then there’s a noise. And then nothing. Not even Libby’s mother.

I stare at her lifeless body sprawled across the hallway. Her chest ragged and raw, the side of her jaw nothing but shards of bone. Blood and bits of her flesh splatter down my arms and across Libby’s lovely clothes she’d let me borrow.

Fingers yank at my arm and I think it’s Libby, come to drag me to safety. But I open my eyes to find her father instead. Kneeling in front of me, physically pulling me from the memory.

“My wife?” he prods. My entire body trembles.

“She was killed like the others.” I force the words through chattering teeth. “I watched it happen.”

He drops his head, inhaling sharply. After a moment, he slips an arm around my waist, helping me stand. “We’ll be in port soon, we should get you cleaned up.” He shuffles me down the hallway, back to my room. Gesturing to the narrow bathroom, he says, “Everything you need should be in there. I’ll have some food brought up in the meantime.”

In the bathroom I turn the faucets greedily, shoving my hands under the spray. Needing to feel that instant gratification. I cup handfuls of water into my mouth, careful to drink only small amounts and using the rest to swish around in an attempt to purge the pervasive taste of salt.

Then I glance up. I’m not sure what I thought I’d look like after everything that’s happened but it’s certainly nothing like the creature I find staring back. My hair, dark with sweat and grease, lies in clumps, the ends tangled and knotted around my shoulders. My lips are split, my normally narrow nose swollen from sunburn.

Immediately I understand why everyone’s treated me like a wounded animal—my eyes are wild and fierce and unlike anything I’ve seen in myself before. I don’t recognize my own expression and that, more than anything else, unsettles me.

I watch as my reflection lifts trembling fingers to probe against the ridge of my cheekbones, so starved and sharp they cast deep shadows over sunken flesh. It’s as though my skin were made translucent and stretched across an oversized skull, every fissure and ridge of bone standing in prominent relief. Something between a gasp and a cry gurgles in my throat, and I turn away, unable to bear it.

Behind me is a small shower and I grasp for the handles, turning the water full blast. I don’t even bother removing my clothes. Pressing my back against the wall, I slide until I’m sitting, knees clutched to my chest, and let the water punish me with heat and steam.

Not caring at the sting of all my sores or at the protest of my sunburned flesh. Because this pain means that I’m alive. That I made it.

If only I knew what that means.

W
hen I finally shut off the shower and peel off my clothes, I don’t bother drying before pulling on a thick robe I find hanging on the door—I like the feel of water on my desiccated skin.

Stepping back into the bedroom, I’m surprised to find Lib-by’s father waiting for me. The dome of his head gleams faintly with sweat, and the folds on his face hang thickly, as though gravity somehow exerts more force on him than anyone else.

As soon as he sees me, he stands, helping me to a plush chair next to a table where there’s a glass of water waiting. I cup my hands around it, but my stomach’s not ready for more yet.

He moves to sit but then changes his mind and paces toward the porthole window before turning. “I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Cecil.” He gestures down the hallway. “Libby’s father,” he adds, and I nod. “I . . .” He seems to reconsider whatever he was about to say and paces across the room again.

When he reaches the table, he grips the back of the empty chair, leaning on it. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about the
Persephone
being attacked.” He watches my reaction carefully. “Is it true?”

I hold his eyes a moment before answering. “Yes, sir.”

He presses his lips together and lets out a long breath. I stare down at the water in front of me, watching tiny ripples radiate against the glass from the sway of the yacht.

“And the men—these attackers—they weren’t wearing any masks. You could identify them?”

I nod.

“So you, Senator Wells, and his son are the only witnesses to what happened. And for whatever reason the two of them seem intent on keeping quiet about it being an attack.” He pauses. “Which leaves you.”

This time I don’t respond. What is there to say?

He pulls out the chair, finally, and sits. For a long while, he considers me while I keep my attention focused on the glass of water. “Which means that if I ever want to find out the truth about what happened to my wife and daughter, I’ll need your help.”

At this, I jerk my eyes up. “Me? What can I do?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.”

I shift, suddenly uncomfortable. I don’t like the idea that I’m the only thing standing between the world and the truth about the
Persephone
. It’s too much of a burden when I’m carrying enough already. I shake my head. “I don’t—”

But he holds up a hand and I let the protest die on my lips. “I started to call the coast guard to give them the details of the rescue and let them know we were bringing you in so they could have someone there to pick you up.”

He shakes his head slowly. “But then I thought about how you’re the last person who saw my baby alive. The last person to talk to her. You’re the only one who knows what those final moments were like for her.” His voice breaks and he glances away, his eyes glistening with tears. “You’re my last connection with her.”

I pull my feet up to the edge of the chair, wrapping the robe tighter as I hug my knees to my chest. So that I take up the smallest amount of space possible.

“I lost my family out there.” He chokes on a sob. My own throat tightens, my eyes burning as I swallow again and again. If I let the ache in my chest rise too far, it will drown me.

“You know, we’re alike that way,” he adds, struggling to turn the sob into a laugh and failing. He presses his fingers to his eyes, taking measured breaths. “I don’t want to go home and face my daughter’s empty bedroom.”

I shove the heel of my palm in my mouth, biting what’s left of the flesh in an attempt to stave off the tide of grief.

He stands, walking across the room. Composing himself. “Did Libby ever tell you about Shepherd and Luis?” The change in subject is so abrupt that I blink, a few times, wondering whether I’ve misheard him. I nod slowly, confused about where this is going. Shepherd, his older brother, Luis, and Libby had practically grown up together. During our time adrift, there’d been nothing to do but talk and she’d told me everything about them.

Especially about her and Shepherd falling in love.

“Their parents worked for me,” Cecil explained. “Their mom was my personal assistant and their father ran my estates. But it was more than that—they were practically family. When their parents were killed in a car accident, Shepherd and Luis didn’t have any relatives in the US; the state planned to send them back to live with their extended family in Mexico, which didn’t seem fair to them.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Or to us. Shepherd and Luis were like sons to Barbara and me. We couldn’t bear the thought of losing those two boys as well—how empty the house would seem. And so Barbara and I took them in and became their legal guardians. It wasn’t even a question for us. Those boys needed us, and we needed them.”

I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to say anything in response to his story or not, so I stay silent. “I thought that, maybe, we could help each other out,” he continues. “You took care of my baby as she was dying. Please let me take care of you. I can protect you if the attackers come after you as a witness. You wouldn’t have to go into foster care or have to worry about the state—everything would be taken care of. I wouldn’t have to say good-bye to the last memories of my daughter just yet.”

He pauses, hands clenching into fists. “And maybe together we can find the bastards who did this.”

“Are you talking about . . .” I struggle for the right words. “Becoming my guardian, like you did with Shepherd and Luis?” Suddenly, the idea of having a place to go, having a house and a room and a dresser and a person who knows the truth of what happened and could protect me—it’s too much to hope for.

So when Libby’s father shakes his head, it’s like the last bright spot inside of me shattering.

“There would be too much paperwork. I learned that with Shepherd and Luis. You’d still end up in the system, a ward of the state. And who knows if they’d even consent to me taking care of you. In the meantime if there are people out there looking for you, they’d find you easily,” he points out.

“No, what I’m suggesting . . .” He leans forward and sets something on the table between us. I recognize it instantly: Libby’s signet ring. “Is that you switch places with my daughter. That you become Elizabeth Anne O’Martin.

“It’s the only way to keep you safe.” He pushes the ring toward me. “It’s the only way to figure out who did this and make them pay.”