Poppy
It’s impossible to believe the night was even real. But the Orchid is still out there, across the water, almost fully on her side. Survivors are still being brought ashore by the Coast Guard, SAR teams, villagers, helicopters. Bodies, too.
Some of the deceased now lie in a row in zippered bags on a harbor wall near the water’s edge. Others are covered with tarps, blankets.
A mountain of orange life vests rises beside a whitewashed wall covered in tangled pink bougainvillea. Tables have been set up with food and hot drinks.
The small harbor is chaotic—people milling everywhere.
Many are survivors, wrapped in silver emergency blankets or jackets brought by villagers.
Some wander, dazed. Others sit shell-shocked.
A few call out names, still searching for loved ones.
The wounded are being treated by paramedics or volunteers and are awaiting passage to clinics or hospitals.
Poppy isn’t sure how she got here. It’s all a blur now. And her glasses are missing, which doesn’t help—not being able to see clearly just adds to the fuzziness of her confusion.
A survival blanket has been wrapped around her shoulders. A bandage has been placed on her head wound, and her hair is damp and sticky from blood and salt spray. She’s bone cold despite the growing warmth of the rising sun.
She can see Patrick up a rise at the end of a road that leads from the harbor. He made it ashore in another lifeboat. The little road is flanked by quaint whitewashed buildings with blue doors. He’s talking to Arrabella.
Arrabella has both arms wrapped around him. Someone must have given him the plaid shirt he’s wearing—the sleeves are too short for his long arms. Poppy can’t see much more without her spectacles. But she knows it’s definitely Arrabella from the bright fuchsia-red hair against very pale skin.
Arrabella was waiting for Patrick down here at the tiny fishing harbor, watching as survivors were brought in.
She came running over and flung her arms around him.
Poppy saw him take her aside, drawing her out of the way and up that little rise. She wonders what they’re talking about. And what Patrick will do now. Near-death experiences, second chances—they change people in ways no one can predict.
Poppy’s thoughts turn to Lillith. And Hendrick.
No word about them yet.
An old Greek fisherman with a big bushy beard walks toward her, carrying a steaming mug. He wears a stained gray jacket over a striped sweatshirt with holes, baggy trousers, frayed sandals. He sits down beside her and offers her the tin mug of steaming hot chocolate.
She can smell it—the chocolate, the rich sweetness of it. She almost cries with gratitude at the kind gesture. She accepts the mug and wraps her hands around it for warmth, holding it awhile, allowing heat to seep into her palms.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“How are you doing, Poppy?” he asks quietly. His voice is warm. Greek accent.
Poppy looks up into his face.
Shock rustles through her.
Confused, she just stares. Her brain struggles to make sense of what she’s seeing. It’s him. But it’s also not him.
His hair is dark and thick, and needs a cut. His beard is shot through with silver. Even his face is different, but unmistakably familiar.
“Avi?”
“You doing okay?”
“Why—who are you?”
“I need to tell you something.”
“Lillith? Has something happened to her?”
“No word on her yet.”
She peers at him, squinting without her glasses. Avi Galev is no longer Israeli. He’s become a Greek—not just any Greek, but an old one, from a small island. A fisherman. His accent. His intonation. His aura. Everything about Avi Galev has changed.
“What was in that pouch you gave her—the hard pouch that she put in her diamanté clutch bag?”
“Listen carefully. There’s a law firm in Edinburgh—the Auldbridge Group. When you return to Scotland, contact them. If you don’t, if you’re in shock, if you forget, don’t worry—they will reach out to you.”
“What are you talking about?”
He studies her for a moment. “Lillith created two trusts about six months ago. The majority of her assets were liquidated and split between these two private trusts. The beneficiaries are known only to the Auldbridge lawyers. One trust is yours. The other, Patrick’s.
Patrick will retain control of the media arm.
The small remainder of her assets have been donated to several charities or organizations.
There’s nothing else left, Poppy. It’s already all in those trusts.
Her castle estate was sold before the cruise, and the proceeds are among the liquidated assets.
It was done discreetly. She and Angus have always trusted the Auldbridge Group with their discretion.
Nothing need appear in the press. No one needs to know about you.
Lillith remains true to her word. She gave you the story of your past, and now it belongs to you, to do with as you see fit. Same goes for your half of her assets.”
Poppy, already dazed, maybe even a bit concussed, and half blind without her glasses, can only stare open-mouthed at this fisherman who used to be Avi Galev.
“But Lillith—she’s not . . . gone, is she? She could have made it off the ship.”
He inhales, watching the crowds milling about.
“She’s not coming back.”
“Why? What happened? Did she get off the ship—with Hendrick? Did they flee somewhere?”
“She did what she came to do.”
“Her list—her Death List?”
“Yes.”
Give Poppy her due.
End it with Poppy.
RIP.
“What did she mean by ‘RIP,’ exactly? There was something in that pouch, wasn’t there?”
Softly, he says, “All threats to you—current or future—have been neutralized. I did what she asked. Here, this is for you.”
He hands her a USB stick no bigger than a car key fob.
“What’s this?”
“Cam footage. From some of the elite suites, including yours. One of the crew was spying. I had the data retrieved. It’s yours to control now. She wanted nothing hidden from you.”
Poppy stares at the USB drive. Her brain isn’t working. “Who was spying?”
“Like I said, the threats have been neutralized.”
He pauses, then gets to his feet, looks down at her.
“Goodbye, Poppy.”
“Is your name even Avi?”
But the bearded Greek fisherman turns away. His shoulders slouch inward. He seems to shrink and grow old, weak, tired, as he shuffles off with a heavy-looking sling bag slung across his body.
With a start Poppy realizes it’s the same bag she saw Roshaan give Avi in the foyer at intermission, when she’d run to the loo to be sick.
She watches him limp up a cobbled alley until he rounds a corner and disappears.
Avi Galev is gone.
She knows she’ll never see him again. He dematerialized, reformed into a new identity, and now he’ll probably morph into yet another persona to reappear in some other part of the world. Perhaps—if Lillith paid him handsomely—he might never have to work again.
If what he said is true, neither will she.
But she still can’t absorb it.
She closes her eyes. Feels the warmth of the sun on her face.
The heat of the mug in her hands. In her mind she sees Lillith’s face—the kindness in her eye, the gentleness in her voice.
Poppy thinks of all the hatred and anger she directed for her entire life at the imaginary mother who dumped her in a Tardis booth.
Tears begin to leak out from under her lashes.
A helicopter thuds across the sea toward the harbor, growing louder, closer. Her eyes flare open. Her pulse quickens.
A rescue basket swings beneath it.
Everyone in the harbor stops. Faces turn skyward. Hands shield eyes from the glare as they watch the rescue helicopter come in. A collective breath holds as the question hovers: Survivors? Or more bodies?
Rescuers run forward to guide the basket to the ground, and to unclamp it from the lines.
As they carry it forward, someone begins to wail.
In the basket there are no survivors. Just two body bags.
One is tiny—the size of a child.