Page 35 of The Awful Truth

“I found out who owns the yacht!”

His words came out garbled, but Petra pieced together what he meant. “I can’t hear you. I made the ferry and the reception is shit.”

She tried again, slowly and as loud as she dared to speak. “I found out who owns the yacht.”

“Can you text me instead? I can’t hear you at all.”

“Okay, I’ll text you. I’m hanging up now.”

“What?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Missed that.”

“Oh, screw it.”

She ended the call and texted:

The yacht is owned by Travis Bishop.

Luka

Yes, the app I have shows the owner of every boat, but good detective work!

Petra sighed heavily as she thought about their exchange. She had been so excited to be the one to find another piece of the puzzle. How would she ingratiate herself to him if she couldn’t get any information he wouldn’t be able to get on his own?

She sat down at her desk and put her handbag in the bottom drawer like she did every morning. Then she pulled out her regular mobile phone and set in on her desk. Glancing at The Director, she saw he was sitting back in his chair with his eyes closed, rubbing the bridge of his nose the way he did whenever his ex-wife called. She quickly pulled out the secret phone, checked to make sure it was on vibrate, then put it in her top drawer, up against the metal partition so she would be able to hear it. She left the drawer open a crack just to be sure.

And now all she could do was sit here, watch, and wait for clues.

TWO DAYS BEFORE THE INCIDENT

“Promises are worse than lies. You don't just make them believe, you also make them hope.” ~ Unknown

6:28 P.M.

MERCY

Mercy knocked on the door to the bridge, despite it technically belonging to her. The captain, Benedetto, waved her in with a smile. “There she is. Signora Mercy, looking as beautiful as ever.”

He stood and gave her a kiss on each cheek, something Travis tolerated because Benedetto was a scrawny old Italian man. Had their captain been a strapping man in his forties, Travis would have found reason to fire him within the first week.

Mercy rested her hand on his upper arm and smiled. “Ben, I apologize for not saying hello earlier. How are you?”

“Good, good,” he answered. “I still have the eyesight and energy of a much younger man.”

That was his customary answer, as if he felt the need to justify his existence to her. “I’m sure you do. I’m a little concerned about the men. I expected them back a couple of hours ago.”

He held up one hand as if it could hold back the tide itself. “Not to worry, Signora. Oliver and I have been in contact the whole time. One of the men caught a seventy-pound amberjack. So Signore Travis wants to try to find something more impressive.”

She smiled even though inside Mercy was cringing. She knew exactly what Benedetto wasn’t saying—her husband was a giant baby who must win at everything. “I see.”

“Ah, us men, we like to compete.” Making a fist, he tapped his chest twice in a gesture of strength. “But they’ll have to come back soon, whether they catch one or not. It’s getting dark.”

“Are they fishing nearby?”

Screwing up his leathered face, he said, “Not so close, no. They’ve been following a school, which has gone farther out to sea.”