Chapter 2 - Seven Entries in Three Days
The captain's office was locked, but I knew this ship well enough to know where the backup key lived — tucked in the bridge chart cabinet, insisted on by my father years earlier for exactly this kind of emergency.
Inside, everything looked ordinary at first glance. Navigation printouts. Customs paperwork. Maintenance logs. Then, in the bottom drawer, I found the medical binder.
I searched for my name.
Seven entries. We'd been aboard three days, and there were seven entries under my name.
The first was dated two full days before we'd even left the dock.
Passenger: Vivian Cole. Medical note: history of stress-related vertigo, intermittent sedative use, panic symptoms.
None of that was true. I had never taken a sedative in my life. I had never once had a panic-related vertigo episode.
Below it: Spouse authorized to supervise evening medication if symptoms recur.
Signed — not by me.
Julian Cole.
The entries after that documented three nights of "voluntary" doses. Doses I had never agreed to.
Then a handwritten note, different ink, clearly added later:
Patient appeared more impaired than expected. Recommend discontinuing all medication until physician consult. Mr. Cole objected.
And beneath that: Medication inventory discrepancy. Two blister packs missing from locked cabinet.
My hands were shaking so hard I nearly dropped my phone taking pictures of every page.
Then I heard footsteps.
I shut the binder too late. The door opened, and the captain stood there, looking first at me, then at the open drawer.
Neither of us said anything for a second.
"You shouldn't be in here," he finally said.
I held up the binder. "Neither should this."
His whole face changed. "You saw it."
"Yes."
He closed the door behind him, and that scared me more than if he'd called security on the spot.
"Who altered my medical record?"
"I don't know."
"Who gave Julian access to my medication?"
"He shouldn't have had any."
"Who's missing the blister packs?"
He dragged both hands down his face. "Vivian — I've been trying to reach your family's security office since yesterday."
My heart stopped cold. "What?"
"The satellite communication logs have been altered. Outgoing calls from your personal account are being rerouted."
"By who?"
"I can't prove it yet."
"But?"
"Your husband."
The silence after that word filled the whole room.
"The nurse confronted him about the dosage," the captain went on. "That's why she's been isolated — she isn't sick. She believes someone got into her cabin after she started asking questions. She asked to stay locked in the forward crew section herself."
"Why didn't anyone wake me?"
"We tried. Julian intercepted us. Told us your father had authorized him to manage your health because of your history with anxiety."
"I don't have a history with anxiety."
"I know that now."
My mind was racing far ahead of my mouth. "How much does Bennett know?"
The captain's eyes shifted, just slightly, and everything in my chest tightened at once.
"All of it?"
"I don't know for certain."
"And Eleanor?"
"Vivian—"
"All of them?"
"I heard them arguing yesterday. About money."
That fit. Julian had taken a sudden, careful interest in my family's finances before the wedding — estate structure, trust protections, voting rights. He'd said he wanted to understand the responsibilities that came with marrying into money like mine. My father had liked that about him. Called him serious. Responsible.
I had loved that about him too.
Now every memory of it felt contaminated.
"We need to get you off this yacht," the captain said.
"No."
He stared at me. "No?"
"If they're doing what I think they're doing, and I leave openly, they'll know I know. They'll change the plan before we can catch them at anything."
"Vivian, this isn't a boardroom negotiation."
"No," I agreed. "It's worse."
I thought of the log. The missing medication. My rerouted messages. My in-laws who wouldn't leave.
"What's our current route?" I asked.
"Wraith Cay."
"No — Julian told me we were heading to South Anchorage."
"The destination changed yesterday."
"Who ordered that?"
He looked at me for a long moment. "Bennett Cole."
My pulse jumped hard. "He has no authority on this ship."
"I told him exactly that."
"And?"
"He produced a signed operational directive."
"Signed by who?"
"You."
I stared at him. "I never signed anything like that."
He pulled open another drawer and found the document. My electronic signature sat at the bottom of it, clean and unmistakable. The directive authorized Bennett Cole to act as temporary voyage liaison in the event I became medically incapacitated.
I laughed — one short, ugly sound with nothing funny behind it. "They planned this before we even boarded."
Wraith Cay. I knew the place. Remote. Privately leased docks, barely any customs presence, a handful of luxury villas, and one private airstrip.
Perfect if someone needed to move money quietly.
Or a person.
"What happens when we get there?" I asked.
May you like
"I don't know."
"Then we find out."
