Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN THE OCEAN REFUSED TO KEEP
The yacht's lights were disappearing when I realized Graham had made one terrible mistake.
He had forgotten what my father taught me about the ocean.
"Never fight the water, sweetheart. Fight to stay alive long enough for somebody to find you."
I could almost hear Dad's voice.
But knowing what to do and making your body obey are two very different things.
The Atlantic was swallowing me.
My evening dress had become an anchor. The cold drove knives into my chest, and every attempt to breathe ended in violent coughing.
I kicked toward the distant lights.
Then I stopped.
I was wasting strength.
Nobody aboard Graham's yacht was coming back.
He had made certain of that.
I forced myself onto my back, spreading my arms against the waves.
My left hand throbbed where Celeste's heel had crushed it. Two fingers wouldn't straighten.
Above me, the sky was an endless sheet of black.
I thought about my father.
Frank Vale had spent thirty-seven years building a machine shop beside Portland Harbor. He repaired fishing equipment for men who couldn't afford new parts.
He never became wealthy.
But people trusted him.
And when Graham first asked for money, Dad had looked at me across our kitchen table.
"Be careful who needs you, Maren. Some people love what you can give them more than they love you."
I had been furious.
Now I wondered whether he had known something.
A wave rolled over my face.
Saltwater filled my mouth.
I struggled upright, coughing so hard my vision darkened.
That was when I saw the light.
Not the yacht.
A smaller vessel moving across the harbor entrance.
Its searchlight swept over the water, disappeared, then returned.
I raised my good arm.
"HELP!"
The wind carried my voice away.
I tried again.
Nothing.
Then the light stopped.
It was pointing directly at me.
A horn sounded.
I began crying before I even knew whether anyone had seen me.
The boat came closer, struggling through the waves.
A woman's voice shouted from somewhere above.
"KEEP YOUR FACE UP! WE'RE COMING!"
An orange flotation ring struck the water beside me.
I reached for it.
My injured fingers failed.
The ring drifted away.
"PLEASE!"
"LOOK AT ME!" the woman shouted. "USE YOUR OTHER HAND!"
I stretched until something pulled painfully in my shoulder.
My fingertips caught the rope.
Then strong hands hauled me toward the vessel.
I remember striking the side.
A man's arm around my waist.
A heavy blanket.
And a woman's face appearing beneath a yellow rain hood.
She stared at me.
"Sweet Jesus."
I knew her.
"Ruth?"
Captain Ruth Kelleher had been bringing lobster traps to my father's shop since I was a little girl.
Her red fishing boat, the Mary Ellen, was older than I was.
Ruth touched my face.
"Maren Vale?"
I tried to answer.
My teeth were chattering too hard.
She turned toward the man helping her.
"Call the Coast Guard. Tell them we've got a woman overboard, possible assault, severe hypothermia."
Then she looked back at me.
"Who put you in that water, honey?"
I grabbed her sleeve.
"Graham."
Ruth's expression changed.
"Graham Mercer?"
"And Celeste."
For a moment, the only sound was the engine.
Then Ruth pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
"Frank would have killed that boy himself."
I closed my eyes.
"No," I whispered. "Dad would've made sure he went to jail."
Ruth nodded.
"Then that's what we're going to do."
At Maine Medical Center, everything became bright lights and familiar voices.
I had worked in that emergency department for almost nine years.
Now I was the patient.
Jo Thompson, a nurse who had covered more overnight shifts with me than I could count, stood beside my bed.
She took one look at my hands and went pale.
"Oh, Maren."
"Don't," I whispered.
She swallowed.
"All right. No crying."
She immediately began crying.
My body temperature was dangerously low. I had swallowed seawater, injured my shoulder, and fractured two fingers.
But I was alive.
That fact felt almost impossible.
A detective arrived shortly after three in the morning.
Her name was Lena Ortiz.
She had tired brown eyes and the calm manner of someone who had learned not to believe the loudest person in a room.
She listened while I explained the transfers, the forged signatures, the mistress, and the swim deck.
Then she asked a question that made my stomach tighten.
"Did you consume alcohol aboard the yacht?"
"No."
"Graham Mercer says you did."
Of course he did.
"He also says you've struggled emotionally since your father's death."
I stared at her.
"He tried to murder me."
"I'm not dismissing that."
"Then why are you repeating his story?"
"Because I need to know what he's telling everyone else."
She placed a tablet beside my bed.
A video was playing.
It showed me standing near the yacht's main salon, holding a champagne flute.
I remembered the moment.
Celeste had handed me the glass.
I hadn't taken a sip.
But the video had been edited.
The frame jumped.
Suddenly I appeared to be staggering toward a doorway.
"That's not what happened."
"I believe there's more to the recording," Ortiz said carefully.
Then she showed me a photograph.
A typed note lay beside a woman's purse.
I'm tired of disappointing everyone. I can't keep living like this.
My name appeared at the bottom.
My breathing changed.
"I never wrote that."
"The note was found inside your bag."
"Someone put it there."
"That's what we're investigating."
I looked at my injured hand.
"Photograph this."
Ortiz leaned closer.
The purple bruising across my knuckles had taken a strangely narrow shape.
"The woman who stepped on my hand was wearing white leather heels," I said. "Celeste Pryor. Size seven or eight, maybe. There was a metal decoration beneath the heel."
Ortiz called for a forensic photographer.
For the first time since entering the hospital, I felt somebody was listening.
Then Jo returned with my belongings.
My ruined dress.
My wet engagement ring.
And my father's old silver wristwatch.
The watch had stopped at 10:43.
Dad had worn it every working day for twenty-six years.
I held it against my chest.
Jo touched my shoulder.
"Your sister's here."
I went still.
Nora and I hadn't spoken properly in eight months.
Our last conversation had ended with her accusing me of letting Graham turn our father's business into a personal bank.
I had told her to mind her own affairs.
Now I wished I could take those words back.
"Send her in."
Nora entered wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt.
Her face looked ten years older.
She approached the bed slowly.
"Maren."
"Did you know?"
She stopped.
"About Celeste?"
"About what he was doing to Dad's money."
Nora looked toward the door.
Then she pulled a folded piece of paper from her purse.
"I've been trying to reach you since Friday."
"My phone was with Graham."
"I know."
Her voice cracked.
"That's why I came to the yacht tonight. I thought if I could get you alone—"
"You were there?"
"Yes. Aunt June and Kate were with me."
I remembered three members of my family standing somewhere inside that floating palace.
While I screamed for help.
"Did you see me fall?"
"No. But I saw Graham come back into the salon. His cuffs were wet. Celeste was shaking."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because he told us you had gone downstairs to lie down."
I turned away.
Nora began crying quietly.
"I knew something was wrong when he ordered the captain back toward Portland."
"Why?"
"Because he said you were resting in your cabin. But your purse was still upstairs."
My heart pounded.
"Tell Detective Ortiz."
"I will."
She stepped closer.
"But there's something else."
She unfolded the paper.
It was a copy of a financial document.
My name appeared beside a signature I had never written.
Beneath it was another signature.
Nora Vale.
I looked up.
"What is this?"
My sister covered her mouth.
May you like
Then she said the words that hurt almost as much as Graham's betrayal.
"Maren, I was the witness on the papers they used to take Dad's shop."
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