Still, hearing it in his voice made it real in a new way.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed my hands together, trying to warm them. My palms were sweaty. The air in the cabin felt too still.
Frank Harrison needed time to dig up Michael’s finances. That would help later, on land.
Here, on the ship, I needed allies. I needed witnesses. I needed someone who could stand beside me if things turned violent, someone who could call for help, someone who would remember details if I didn’t survive.
And I needed to understand the ship itself.
I left my cabin and started walking.
The corridors were wide and carpeted, lit with soft yellow lights. Doors lined both sides, identical, like hotel rooms in a maze. A few couples walked past in resort wear, laughing, holding plastic cups with little umbrellas. A child ran ahead of his parents, squealing, his footsteps muted by the carpet.
The normalcy felt surreal.
I took a set of stairs up, then an elevator down. I watched people’s faces. The staff. The passengers. Anyone who looked too focused on me.
On Deck 10, the pool area was already alive with music. The smell of sunscreen mixed with fried food. People lounged in the sun, their skin glowing, their laughter loud and careless. It was impossible to imagine death here. That was part of what made it perfect for someone like Michael. Tragedy on vacation always gets filed under accident.
I walked slowly along the edge of the deck, pretending the view was all I cared about. I noted the railings. The wet spots where water sloshed. The places where shadows fell at night.
Then I found the security cameras.
Small black domes tucked into corners. Some obvious, some nearly hidden. They watched the main hallways, the entrances to public areas, the elevator banks. That eased something in my chest. Cameras meant records. Records meant evidence.
But when I passed a row of cabin balconies and looked out at the private spaces hanging over the ocean, I saw the truth.
No cameras.
Those balconies were blind spots.
Michael had chosen my cabin because of that.
I felt the first flicker of true fear then, the kind that tries to crawl up your throat and steal your voice. I swallowed it down.
Not now.
I turned toward the main dining room at lunchtime, drawn by the chance to sit among people. Isolation was risk. People are less likely to harm you when others are close enough to notice.
The dining room was elegant, white tablecloths, soft jazz humming through hidden speakers, waiters in crisp uniforms moving with practiced grace. Large windows framed the ocean, bright and endless.
I chose a table near the windows, not in a corner, not too close to the edges. I ordered soup I barely tasted.
That’s when I saw him.
A man about my age, maybe early sixties, silver hair combed neatly back, wearing a well-fitted suit as if he didn’t know how to dress casually. He sat alone at a corner table with a hardcover book open beside his plate. His posture was straight, calm. Not tense, not distracted.
When his eyes met mine, he offered a polite, almost old-fashioned smile.
Something in that smile steadied me. It didn’t feel like a performance. It felt like recognition, the kind men of our generation give each other without words.
I hesitated, then stood and walked over.
“Excuse me,” I said, keeping my tone mild. “Would you mind if I sat with you? I hate eating alone.”
His smile widened slightly. “Please. Sit.”
I slid into the chair across from him, grateful for the simple permission.
“I’m Carl Anderson,” he said, extending his hand. “Denver.”
“Robert Sullivan,” I replied, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, warm. “Chicago.”
“First cruise?” he asked, amused.
“Yes,” I said. “Feels like I’m in a floating city.”
Carl chuckled softly. “That’s exactly what it is. A little city with fewer responsibilities. In theory.”
“In theory,” I echoed, and surprised myself with a faint smile.
We ate slowly, talking the way strangers do at first. Weather. The ship. The strange feeling of being surrounded by people and still alone.
Then Carl mentioned his kids.
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