Chapter 2 - THE LOCKED GLASS “Adrian, you should have jumped.”
Corinne’s smile didn't reach her eyes. It was a cold, calculated expression, the kind of look a predator gives a trapped animal.
She turned her back to the locked glass door of the cabin and pulled the heavy deadbolt shut from the inside.
The click echoed over the sound of the crashing waves.
I stood on the upper deck, clutching my shaking daughter to my chest. The wind was picking up, whipping saltwater across my face. The yacht’s engines suddenly roared to life, a deep, vibrating hum that vibrated through the deck plates beneath my feet.
The boat was accelerating.
“Daddy, it’s loud,” Junie whimpered, burying her face in my shoulder.
“I know, baby. Cover your ears.”
I ran to the glass cabin door and yanked the handle. It wouldn't budge. I slammed my shoulder against the reinforced pane. Nothing. This was Matthew’s custom yacht, retrofitted with impact-resistant glass for "security."
Now, that security was keeping me out.
Through the glass, Corinne didn't even look back. She calmly walked toward the bridge to join my brother.
My mind raced. Matthew owned half of Brooks Innovations. We had built the software company together in our twenties. But over the last few years, he had made reckless investments, bleeding his own trust dry. Last month, he had asked me for a massive buyout. I refused, telling him he needed to get his life together.
I thought I was giving him tough love.
Instead, I had signed my own death warrant.
If Junie and I went overboard in the middle of the Atlantic, Matthew would inherit my controlling shares. And as my widow, Corinne would inherit everything else. It was a perfect, sickening split.
I looked over the railing. The dark, churning water of the Atlantic rushed past us. We were miles from the Florida coast. If we went into the water now, at this speed, we wouldn't survive ten minutes.
“Daddy, look.”
Junie tugged on my wet shirt. Her small, trembling finger pointed toward the stern.
Strapped to the emergency railing was a heavy, bright orange life ring. And clipped to the center of it was a small, silver emergency flare gun.
I set Junie down behind a heavy deck storage box, shielding her from the wind. “Stay right here, sweetheart. Don't move.”
I rushed to the railing and ripped the velcro straps off the life ring. I grabbed the flare gun. It was heavy, loaded with a single magnesium shell.
I didn't intend to shoot it into the sky. Nobody was around to see it anyway.
I walked back to the locked cabin door, aimed the flare gun at the bottom corner of the impact-glass, and fired.
The deafening pop made Junie scream. A blinding red flash engulfed the deck. The intense heat of the magnesium flare didn't shatter the glass immediately, but it melted the heavy rubber weather-stripping and cracked the structural frame.
I grabbed the heavy metal fire extinguisher from the wall mount and swung it like a baseball bat.
The weakened glass shattered inward.
I cleared the shards, scooped Junie into my arms, and stepped into the quiet, air-conditioned cabin.
The luxury lounge was empty. Half-finished champagne glasses sat on the mahogany table. It looked like a normal vacation. But the silence felt heavy, suffocating.
I set Junie down quietly. “We’re playing a hiding game now, okay? You have to be quieter than a mouse.”
She nodded, her large brown eyes terrified but brave.
I crept toward the bridge stairs. I needed to see how many crew members Matthew had bought off. But as I passed the dining area, I noticed something resting on the polished table.
It was Emily’s silver compass necklace.
My heart stopped. Emily had worn it every day. After she died, I put it in a safe at home, saving it for Junie’s sixteenth birthday.
Why was it on the yacht?
I picked it up. The cold silver felt like a warning in my palm. Underneath the necklace was a folded nautical chart.
I opened it.
The charted course wasn't taking us back to Miami. It was a straight line toward international waters, ending at a small, uninhabited atoll in the Bahamas.
But there was a name written in red ink next to the coordinates.
“Transfer point: Elias.”
I stared at the name. Elias. That was the name of the drunk driver who had struck Emily’s car two years ago—the man who was supposed to be serving a twenty-year prison sentence.
Suddenly, a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder from behind.
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“You really should have stayed on the deck, Adrian.”
I spun around. It was Captain Miller. He held a heavy steel wrench in his hand, and his eyes were filled with cold regret.
