Chapter Five
Ella
We check through the peephole to make sure the corridor is empty.
“Remember, act normal,” I tell Claudette when she’s about to open the door.
“Me, normal?”
I don’t laugh at her attempted joke, trepidation gnawing at me.
Feel the fear and do it anyway.
That could be my motto from now on. What a cheery thought.
We step outside. Claudette and I each carry a rucksack with the bare essentials, leaving most of our stuff behind.
The air is heavy, charged, and I can’t shake the sense that we’re being watched.
I’ve always been aware that there are cameras on this ship. It’s just hard to imagine that someone is actually paying attention to every person who walks these corridors.
Claudette loops her arm through mine, her grip anchoring me to a relaxed pace. After a couple of minutes, we reach the door to the staircase and step through it.
It’s quiet in here, and I release a careful breath. There’s nowhere to hide, but at least there’s nowhere to lurk either. We’re safe. For now.
We descend until we reach the kitchen level. Three doors branch off in different directions.
“This one,” I say, pointing to the right, “leads to the kitchen. And one of these two goes to the garbage bay, but I’m not sure which.”
“You’ve said you’ve been before.”
“I have, but there’s a more direct route from inside the kitchen. We can’t take it. I’d need my employee card, and I didn’t bring it.”
We stare at the remaining doors.
“Which one are we taking?” Claudette asks, looking expectantly at me.
“You’re the psychic,” I say. “You decide.”
Claudette stills. Her gaze is unfocused for a brief moment, then she points to the middle door.
“That one.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to question her. I would have chosen the left door. But I trust Claudette. She’s the one with the sixth sense.
The door is heavy, the metal cold beneath my palms as I push it open. The corridor beyond is dark. I pause, but Claudette steps through without hesitation.
A sensor light flickers on, casting a weak glow. The temperature drops noticeably, and goosebumps ripple across my arms.
We walk until we reach another door. It’s locked, and a sign reads: Food Coolers.
I frown at Claudette, raising a brow at her.
“Well, I do get it wrong sometimes,” she says with a shrug. “Eighty-twenty rule.”
“Huh?”
“I’m right about eighty percent of the time.”
That’s new information. I always assumed she knew everything. She usually declares upfront when she doesn’t.
“Does that mean you could be wrong about Peanut being a girl?” I ask, planting my hands on my hips.
“No,” she says immediately. “I’m confident about that.”
I study her. “Eighty percent confident?”
Her lips twitch, but before she can say anything else, voices echo down the corridor.
Male voices.
Then a door slams.
We freeze.
The voices are getting closer. And they’re speaking Italian.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
I press my back against the cold wall, forcing my breathing to slow. My heart is pounding so hard it might give us away. Instinctively, my hand drifts to my stomach, a quiet, fierce urge to protect what’s there.
Beside me, Claudette mirrors my stillness, her fingers tightening around mine.
Sweat beads along my hairline despite the chill. They’re coming this way.
I turn to Claudette, and we share a look of pure terror. We have to keep moving.
My gaze darts down the corridor and lands on another heavy metal door just as footsteps grow louder.
No time to waste.
We run to the door and I yank the handle.
Nothing.
I try again, harder. The handle moves, but the door won’t open.
Please don’t be one of those doors that only opens from the other side.
“Hurry,” Claudette whispers.
“I’m trying,” I hiss, pulling with all my strength. “It’s not locked. I know it’s not. Come on.”
“Freeze,” a heavily accented voice orders.
A sharp click follows.
I look over my shoulder.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
Two men point guns straight at us.
F.U.C.K.