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Oliver Stanton wasn’t happy to be here.

As he leaned against the deck railing of Robert Chandler’s yacht, about a half mile off the coast, he asked himself for the umpteenth time how he’d gotten here. It was well after 9 P.M. Usually by this time of night he’d had dinner and was settling in with a good book, some tea, and his cat, Montecore.

But Chandler hadn't really given him much of a choice. He'd insisted on having a private conversation and claimed that the only place that he felt truly safe was on his yacht. Oliver found that ironic, considering that two of his friends had died on their boats in the last two nights.

“Those guys were idiots,” he had countered before they set sail. “From that video you showed me, it’s obvious that Daran got distracted by some girl posing as a bimbo. And if I know Taye—or knew him—he probably got suckered by the same trick. I’m not letting any skank onto my vessel, no matter how hot she is, until this case is solved.”

Oliver didn’t comment on the fact that Chandler didn’t seem especially broken up over his buddies’ deaths. That wouldn’t have been well received. Nor did he mention the other reason he suspected that Chandler had brought him out here on the water. He knew Oliver couldn’t swim.

By bringing him out into the middle of the Pacific Ocean, he was intentionally trying to make Oliver feel vulnerable and maybe worry just a little bit that he might be tossed overboard if he wasn’t forthcoming. What Chandler didn’t seem to get was that Oliver had no interest in keeping things from him.

The police hadn't asked him to do so, and there was no reason that the friend of two murdered club members couldn't reasonably ask about the status of the case. Of course, there was more to it than that, and they both knew it.

But neither of them spoke about that as Oliver relayed everything he knew about the investigation. When he was done, Chandler sat quietly, sipping a beer from the six-pack that he'd brought on board.

“Do you think these detectives are going to catch whoever this is?” he finally asked.

“I have no idea,” Oliver admitted. “They don’t update me on all their leads, but I know they’ve been frustrated by some dead ends. They definitely believe that whoever is doing this is connected to your…social circle. If it was just Detective Riddell pursuing the case, I’d be more skeptical that they could solve it. He’s a neanderthal. But that Jessie Hunt is a sharp one. I can see why she’s become a minor celebrity. She doesn’t miss a thing.”

What about that actor punk, Dawson?” Chandler wondered. “They should look into him. Maybe he got pissed that he got fired because of us.”

“I don’t think so,” Oliver said confidently.

“How can you be so sure?”

“For one thing, that was nine months ago,” he said. “If he was going to do this, wouldn’t he have done it right after he was let go, when he was at his angriest? Secondly, Hunt and Riddell seem quite sure that this was the work of a female. I suppose it could be multiple people working together, but not him. I popped into the Upper Deck last night and he was there around the time that they think Mr. Boyce was killed. So that gives him an alibi.”

"Well, who do you think it is then?" Chandler demanded, clearly frustrated.

The truth was that the way Chandler treated people, there were more potential suspects than Oliver could count, but just as he did with the investigators, he kept that opinion to himself.

“I just manage the club,” he said, sounding as ineffectual as possible. “I wouldn’t have the first clue. But what I do know is that I desperately have to use the head. Do you mind?”

Chandler scowled.

“Go ahead,” he muttered, waving at the companionway with his beer bottle.

Oliver didn't need to be told twice. He rushed down, and after some fiddling with the door handle, just managed to make it in time. After he was done and had finished washing his hands, he reached for the door handle again and this time, yanked hard. Just as he did, he heard something up on deck. It sounded like perhaps a bottle had broken. He didn't think Chandler was that drunk but who knew with that man.

He exited the head and made his way up the stairs. As he reached the last step, he heard another sound that he couldn’t place. It sounded like something between gasping and gurgling.

He reached the deck and looked around to ask Chandler what was up. The sight before him made his entire body freeze up. Robert Chandler was lying on his back on the deck of his yacht. His hands were desperately flailing at something jammed into his neck.

It took a moment for Oliver’s brain to process that it appeared to be a broken beer bottle. Blood was spraying out of the open wound around the bottle, dousing the boat’s white sails in red. Within a matter of seconds, Chandler’s hands went limp, flopping to the wooden deck. Around the same time, the spray of blood turned into something more like lava, slowly oozing out of the wound.

It was only then that Oliver noticed that there was someone else onboard. Standing a few feet away was a woman wearing a black wetsuit. Oliver knew he was looking at a female because of the form-fitting nature of the suit. Almost every part of her was covered, save for her hands and a small portion of her face.

Though he couldn’t see her clearly in the moonlight, he noted that she was staring down at her victim with a blank expression. Then she turned to face him directly. Fear shot through him as he wondered if he was next.

The light from the cabin below lit her face and he could now see her clearly. Suddenly his fear combined with another unexpected emotion: confusion. He recognized the woman he was staring at. But what twisted his brain in knots was the fact that, as far as he knew, the woman looking back at him was dead.

She tilted her head at him curiously, then raised a single finger to her lips.

“Shh,” she whispered quietly before smiling at him.

Then, without a word, the ghost turned and dove into the ocean.