Chapter 14: The Voice from Home
The radio hissed in Captain Reyes’s hand, but this time a voice came through beneath the static.
“Rescue team is alongside. We have your position.”
Reyes shut her eyes for the briefest moment. Then she pointed two crewmen toward Graham and told them to keep him where the responders could see him. Flynn remained restrained nearby, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, watching every movement as if he could still find a way to command the deck.
I sat wrapped in the blanket, hands pressed against my ribs. Rainwater ran from the edge of my sleeve, and every breath carried the salt sting of the ocean. Beyond the stern, the rescue lights had grown large enough to cast red across the churning water.
The responders came aboard in a burst of wind and shouted names. One took Graham from Reyes; another moved toward Flynn. Their questions rose and fell around me, but I caught only fragments until Reyes crouched beside me.
“We’re getting the satellite line back,” she said. “Then you can call your parents.”
I held on to that sentence as if it were a railing.
In the bridge, the air smelled of wet wool and warm electronics. A deckhand worked at the satellite console while Reyes stood beside him, one hand on the back of my chair. On a second monitor, crew members brought in the suitcase I’d hidden beneath the bed. The papers and pills were still inside its loose lining.
No one asked me to explain them again. No one asked whether I was sure.
The green indicator on the console flickered, went dark, then came back.
“Line’s open,” the deckhand said.
Reyes handed me the satellite handset.
My fingers shook so badly I nearly dropped it. I dialed the number I knew by heart, then pressed the phone to my ear and waited through one ring, then another. The yacht creaked around me, a low groan beneath the hiss of rain on the bridge windows.
“Please,” I whispered.
A click sounded. For a heartbeat, there was only wind.
Then my father said, “Claire?”
My knees weakened. I gripped the edge of the chair.
“Dad.”
A breath caught on the other end. Then I heard my mother, hoarse and close to the phone.
“Claire? Oh, sweetheart.”
The sound of her voice broke something open in me. I covered my mouth, but the sob escaped anyway—small, ugly, impossible to stop. All night I had forced myself to keep moving, keep thinking, keep breathing. Now my mother was alive, and my body finally understood it could stop fighting for one second.
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
“Just coughing,” she said. “I’m all right. Your father’s right here.”
“I’m here,” Arthur said. His voice wavered, then steadied. “We got out through the garden when you called. We went down the side path, just like you told me. A neighbor saw us and brought us to his truck.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. In my mind I saw the narrow gravel drive and the garden gate, the route I’d pictured when I begged him to leave. I had imagined them running through the dark, with someone behind them. I hadn’t let myself imagine a neighbor opening a truck door.
“The firefighters got there,” Dad continued. “The boathouse burned, but they contained it before it reached the house. Your mother’s sitting beside me. We’re safe.”
The breath I released came out as a shudder. I pressed the handset to my cheek, wishing it could carry more than sound, wishing it could carry my arms around them.
“Are you sure you’re both safe?” I asked.
“We’re together,” Mom said. “That’s what matters right now.”
A scrape sounded behind me. I turned.
Flynn had been brought into the bridge passage under guard, his wrists bound in front now. Rain glistened on his face. His eyes had been fixed on me, but when he heard my mother’s voice, his expression shifted.
“Claire,” he said, low and urgent. “Don’t let them listen to this. You know your father—”
Reyes stepped between us.
“Not another word.”
Flynn leaned around her, searching my face for the old reflex: the urge to soften his anger, to reassure him, to make the room safe for him. My hand tightened around the handset.
“Mom,” I said, loud enough for him to hear, “Flynn is here.”
Silence fell on the line.
Then my mother drew a careful breath. “I know, sweetheart.”
Flynn’s composure crumpled. For the first time since I’d known him, he had nothing prepared to say. His mouth opened; no charm arrived to fill it. He stared at the handset as if my mother’s voice had become something solid, something he could not shove aside or rewrite.
“You told me we were going to be a family,” I said.
He looked at me. “I was trying to protect what we—”
“No.” My voice shook, but it did not disappear. “You were trying to own what you thought I’d give you.”
One of the responders took his arm and turned him toward the passage. Flynn twisted once, not enough to break free, only enough to keep looking back. I didn’t follow his gaze. I listened to my mother breathe.
“Claire?” she said.
“I’m here.”
“Come home.”
May you like
The words landed gently, with no demand hidden beneath them. The choice was mine. The route was open; the garden, the gravel drive, the warm kitchen window were still there. This time I knew exactly where I was going.
“I’m coming,” I said.
