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An involuntary shiver passed through her body as she saw the glacier appear on screen – the one that would calve and capsize her boat a few moments later. The view panned out towards the open ocean. ‘There!’ Olivia said, as the nose of the orca pierced the top of the waves. An iceberg came into the frame as the camera tracked the whale.
‘What’s that?’ Janine asked.
‘Hmm?’ Olivia paused the video. Janine pointed at a small splotch of blue on the screen. ‘Oh yes – I saw another boat while I was out there.’ She paused the video and zoomed in. ‘See, it’s a yacht, I think.’
‘Wow, they’re brave.’
She played the rest of the video, watching the boat now instead of the whale. It slipped in and out of view behind an iceberg. It looked like quite a sophisticated sailing vessel, with a sleek navy hull and those broad cream sails she’d spotted from the water.
Just as she was about to fall in the water, the camera panned over the yacht one final time. She paused and zoomed in as far as the camera could go. The horizon was tilted but she got a view of the name of the ship.
CLARISSA II.
She dropped the camera like it was on fire.
‘What’s wrong?’ Janine asked.
But Olivia couldn’t answer.
Her worst nightmare had followed her to the bottom of the world.
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Her mind was whirring, going over the video footage. Janine had been worried about her, fretting and pestering her about why her mood had suddenly shifted. Olivia claimed it was shock from her capsize. She used it as an excuse to crawl back into bed.
Eventually Janine left her alone, and Olivia could sink into her thoughts.
They were dark ones.Clarissa. That was a name she would never be able to forget.
She could clearly remember the excitement she’d felt at sixteen years old on arriving in St Lucia with her mum. They’d been apart from her father for three weeks at that point, as he’d soloed theClarissaacross the Atlantic, moving it from its summer mooring in Lagos, Portugal. The yacht’s owner wanted to spend the winter exploring the turquoise-blue waters of the Caribbean, but didn’t want the hassle of moving it himself.
As was often one of the perks, her dad was allowed to take his family out for a little holiday at the end of the crossing, making sure the yacht handled well and didn’t need any sort of repairs before handing it over to the owner. Those trips had formed some of her favourite childhood memories – whether it was on a small thirty-two-foot sailing boat in Greece or a far more luxurious super yacht in Bermuda – it was a chance for them to escape into a different life for a week as a family. Bothshe and her mum were competent sailors, with Dad entrusting them as his worthy deckhands.
She was older this time, capable of handling more responsibility. She was looking forward to it. She’d pored over the schematics for theClarissa, always interested in the numbers and logistics. Perhaps a foreshadowing of her later career. She’d known this was one of the higher-end sailing vessels, one capable of handling long ocean voyages and navigating rough seas. A week pootling around the crystal-clear Caribbean waters would be like taking a Ferrari for a spin around a car park. The forecast had called for calm seas, a light breeze and endless sunshine. They’d been all set for a perfect voyage.
Whoever owned it had spared no expense. The interior looked more like a penthouse apartment straight out ofSelling Sunsetthan your basic nautical interior design. Her mum had oohed and aahed over the artwork on the walls, the fabric on the sofas – even the soft damask pattern of the wallpaper.
It wasn’t a large yacht, but she was beautiful. Even her name,Clarissa, had sparkled in fresh gold leaf against the bright white hull. For the first six days, it had been truly idyllic: dropping anchor in secluded half-moon-shaped bays with white-sand beaches, snorkelling over pristine coral reefs, spotting clownfish and moray eels, taking the rubber dinghy to restaurants overlooking the water.
Until. Until.
That final night. Her father’s last words to her:Keep watch.
The trust he had in her, that she had betrayed.
The aftermath had been a blur. The boat had beentowed back into harbour by an ugly fishing vessel. The smell – of gasoline and burnt metal – stuck with her, stronger than any other memory from that time. Then there was the investigation. Being questioned by the police in the early hours of the morning. The gash in the side of the hull, marring her perfect finish, from where the speedboat had collided with them.Clarissawas mangled.
A fleet of boats went out looking for her father’s body. He had been a well-known, popular figure at the St Lucia Yacht Club in Gros Islet, and she was amazed by the number of people who came to their aid. They worked in coordinated grids based on the data recovered from theClarissa. But they never found him.
Her mother, wrapped in a blanket, was drowning in shock. Unable to take care of herself, let alone Olivia. Olivia had taken the lead, liaising with the lawyers and the police, figuring out how to get her and her mother home.
Accidental death.That had been the ultimate ruling. Her mother feared every day that they would be held responsible for the damage to the boat, but no letter of demands ever came. They never heard from the owner of the yacht at all.
But one thing she did know, absolutely. It hadn’t been an accident. She had caused it.
It had been her responsibility. And maybe the owner of theClarissaknew it.
Once they were home, life got even more complicated. Their savings had barely covered the move and her mum’s new substitute teaching job just about covered their day-to-day living expenses after that. They’d scraped by until Olivia had been old enough to go touniversity, where again, somehow her dad had set money aside to make sure she could complete her degree. She’d been surprised her dad had been that forward thinking – and even more so that there was a secret account she hadn’t known about – but her mum wouldn’t accept any questions.