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‘Lucy,’ Sergeant Arnold says gently. ‘Listen to me. That image is an exact match to the immersion suit Daniel was wearing and the three we found onboard. I’m so sorry. We don’t believe there’s any way that your children can have survived. The recovery operation will continue, but it’s no longer an active rescue.’
Everything stops. Everything.
Then, without warning, the volcano erupts.
Lucy flings out her right hand, knocking the printer off the desk. She lifts the iMac, hurls it against the wall, grabs it when it bounces back, smashes it down once, twice, pitches it across the office. Upending a shelf, she sends box files crashing to the floor.
Her anger isn’t done. Isn’t even started. She turns on Arnold, panting for breath, teeth clenched from a knifing pain in her ribs.
Clear, now, that until she can speak to Daniel, she’s in this alone.
She bends, hissing with the effort. Snatches up her crash helmet.
‘Lucy, where are you—’
‘Away fromhere!’
In the main bar conversation has died again. This time, she can’t meet anyone’s gaze. Only when she’s outside does she realize she’s sobbing. She climbs on the Triumph, slides the key into the ignition, kicks down on the starter.
The engine responds. A deep-throated roar. It’s what she needs to hear.
Not words but action. Movement.
Billie and Fin stare at her from the windows.
People reap what they sow.
She has no Seago, no immersion suits, nothing left to sustain her except blind faith. That email has changed everything. But she knows she was right to delete it. Unsure of her destination, Lucy twists the throttle and peels away from the quay.
5
Blasting along the coastal road, leaning into the turns, Lucy retreats in time. It’s night again, a week ago. She’s standing barefoot beside Nick’s firepit. Cognac burns in her throat as his eyes rove over her body.
‘So what have you brought me to trade?’
She doesn’t answer him directly. Instead, she carries her drink to the couch. Her feet leave a trail of damp prints, breadcrumbs for Nick to follow. And follow them he does – like a puppy, or a wolf cub, or a snake slithering after its prey.
On the couch, Lucy draws up one leg, balancing her drink on her knee. This close, she can smell more than just Nick’s cologne. She can smellhim– his barely contained restraint. He takes a slug of whisky. She matches him with a swallow of cognac.
‘Where does Daniel think you are?’
‘At the Drift Net. Covering a staff member who phoned in sick.’
A muscle in his jaw twitches. ‘Saturday night. Late closing.’
‘Very late.’
He smirks. ‘Lots of time to negotiate.’
She smiles back. Feels like throwing up. But if there’s a way out of this – and sheknowsthere’s a way out of this – it’s through Nick.
Lucy swirls her cognac. He might play this game better than anyone, but she’s no novice. Nick’s lust for what he doesn’t have is his weak spot. If there’s information to be learned, an opportunity to save what Daniel’s built, she’ll find it.
Because Nick’s treachery, Lucy now believes, far surpasses his sell-out to Hartland International. She spent last night studying the Locke-Povey Marine accounts. Money has gone missing from the business – in recent weeks, a huge amount. So far, she’s been unable to trace it.
Perhaps there’s a way to claw back Nick’s shareholding from Hartland; perhaps there isn’t. But Lucy is going to find that stolen cash. And although she won’t give Nick what he wants in return, she’ll dangle it.
He shifts closer, trailing a finger down her arm. Hard to work out if he’s admiring his old rugby shirt or what lies beneath. ‘You know, I always had a—’ he begins, and then something explodes in the hall.