Roshaan
He said nothing—just took them and left.
A terrible feeling blooms in her gut. Her mind circles back to their last exchange.
“What will you do to him?”
She knows Theo’s gambling addiction—it won’t stop here. He’ll keep returning to her guests, demanding more money for keeping their secrets. He will hound them for years—keep extorting them. He can’t stop. It’s a sickness that breeds perpetual debt.
Avi’s orders echo in her mind.
I want them all. Phone. Laptop, tablet, smartwatch, thumb drive—whatever he could have used to save footage or to access the cloud. Anything he might have used to send footage. I want to know every contact he’s made in order to fully neutralize any threat to my employer.
She fears what neutralize means—for Theo, and for herself. What Theo saw on those cameras is still in his head. At this very moment, he’s onstage, hinting to guests what he knows.
What will Avi do to him?
What’ll he do to her? Will he really let her walk?
And the Moldovans? They were promised the surveillance footage. Even if Avi allows Theo to walk away, the Moldovans could still come after him. After her.
You’re a dead girl walking . . .
She will always be a walking dead girl.
She’ll never work in the cruise industry again.
These guests you are spying on—they’re connected.
They own media empires and control politicians.
They have the resources to crush you completely, and if you still try to escape, I will hound you for the rest of your miserable life.
I will follow you to your death and into the afterlife. Do you understand me, Roshaan DaSousa?
Furies of guilt swarm through her brain with their tattered crow-raven wings, witches’ hair, sharp teeth, and bleeding eyes. They circle and shriek, faster, louder, like the wind outside, groaning like the yawing Orchid.
Roshaan covers her ears, trying to silence them.
Shaytan has come for her.
She was such a good girl, our Roshaan.
She needs air. She’s overheating, feverish.
She hurries up the stairs to Deck 14 and pushes through the doors into a blast of wind flecked with salt spray.
Water sloshing from the pool and hot tubs covers the deck.
Lanterns sway wildly in the gusts—a few stands have broken free.
A deck chair has toppled over. She sees no one.
All around her, the black, moonlit sea heaves and churns, a devil wind twisting across it.
Above her the sky is full with stars, and lights flicker on the cliffs across the water.
She heads toward a bench. The ship sways and she stumbles, then slips onto the deck, scraping her knee.
Roshaan clambers onto all fours, then pushes upright.
Unsteady, she zigzags across the rolling deck and drops heavily onto the bench.
It’s soaked. Salt spray lashes her face.
She tilts it up to the sky. The pool and hot tubs slosh and overflow.
Every so often a wave splashes over the side of a tub, and water streams across the deck.
Roshaan realizes with vague surprise she’s still clutching her mask.
She glances down at it.
The face glows in the silvery moonlight. Haunting. She notices how the moonlight catches her large fake emerald, and she’s reminded of all Theo’s false promises. He aimed them all at the places she was weak, and needy. Simply to get her to do his work.
She can see it all so plainly now. The line. Where she crossed it. She can’t go back now.
She has to go down with him.
Roshaan puts on her mask. She chose the face of a Fury.
Of course she did.
She sits there in the moonlight with her silver Fury face, the storm raging about her. An awning rips free. A table overturns and cartwheels across the deck, followed by a chair. They slam into the railing as the ship tilts hard to port.
She doesn’t care.
Lanterns whip. More strings come loose. A live wire spits and sparks.
She takes no action. She’s numb. She just sits and waits. For her punishment—almost calling it down upon herself.
She knows this is what Furies do—make guilt incarnate so that it swirls apart from you and terrorizes you. Harpies can drive the guilty to self-destruction. They follow you into the afterlife.
Another sharp gusts lashes across the deck. The Black Orchid pitches violently. A trellis beam tears free, whirling through the air. It hits Roshaan across the head.
For a moment she holds upright. Then she smiles beneath her mask as hot blood pours down her face.
She hears Dr. Marsh’s words from his talk.
Many of them started life as “good girls.” Good students. Kind, friendly, sociable. Decent families. In my opinion a lot of them would never have crossed legal lines—let alone become killers—had fate not crossed their paths with a true devil.
She hears her father’s voice.
She’s such a good girl, our Roshaan.
She slumps sideways on the bench. In a puddle of silver moonlight. Her mask still on.
. . . such a good girl, our Roshaan.