Chapter 12
The roar of applause hit Lucy like a physical blow as the rescue launch bumped up against the platform. Crew members yanked on lines and wedged the boat hard against the rubber fenders while medics shouted instructions from the deck above.
From beyond the steel enclosure, employees lined the railings and clapped as if Lucy and Steven had just won gold at the Olympics.
She barely heard them. Too exhausted to feel pride or relief, she only sensed the sound vibrating through her bones, threatening to shatter what little calm she’d found overnight.
She dropped her gaze and let Officer Joseph take her arm.
Together, they moved toward the gangway steps, Joseph cool and methodical, Lucy unsteady.
Adam followed so close that she could feel the pressure of his promise to help her—his hand hovering inches behind her back, ready to catch her if she tipped.
She kept her stride slow so he wouldn’t reach for her.
She wanted to stand on her own two feet.
Karina stood frozen behind the security barrier, tears gleaming on her cheeks. She watched as Joseph lifted Steven from the launch in that narrow orange rescue chair. Steven looked at Karina once—just a quick glance. He said nothing, but his silence was loud. He was as angry as she was.
When Lucy’s legs trembled on the last step, Adam closed in and caught her elbow. She willed her knees to hold, and when she managed to straighten herself, she shrugged off his support.
“I’m okay,” she murmured. He nodded, gleaming concern in his eyes, then stepped back. “I know you can do it,” he said quietly. “But I’ll stay close.” His gentle restraint made her skin burn with fury.
In the ship’s medical center, fluorescent lights replaced the tang of salt and smoke and damp wood that still clung to her. Everything here was sterile and too bright: the white sheets, the sharp smell of disinfectant, the ceiling tiles neatly in place without a single missing bolt.
Lucy lay on a bed that felt unnatural under her back. Her muscles, primed to brace for falling debris, jerked every time a pipe thumped overhead and reminded her nothing would cave in.
A nurse snapped on gloves and took her blood pressure, her movements efficient and unhurried.
Lucy let her examine the small scrape on her calf—she’d barely noticed it bleeding—while she sipped water through chapped lips.
In the next cubicle, the ship’s doctor was gently irrigating the cut above Steven’s ankle.
He had clenched the mattress, but he barely blinked at the antiseptic rinse washing over the wound.
The doctor ignored Steven’s objections with a practiced calm.
Adam paced in the corridor until the nurse on Lucy’s side leaned back to glare at him.
He froze, torn between following her orders to sit and his refusal to leave her side.
His shadow slanted through the curtain’s opening, restless, like a man caught between duty and fear.
When the doctor offered to give him a mild sedative to stay put, Steven called out for something strong enough to last through the return voyage.
Adam shot him a look of half-amused reproach—he was still prepared to fight for Lucy, but even he knew no pill could fix this.
The tension snapped when Steven, voice low, asked, “What about Karina?” He lay back against the pillow, one hand slack at his side, the other still gripping the sheet. His eyes never left the slit of corridor floor visible beyond the curtain.
Adam took a breath. He stepped into view, bracing one hand on the doorframe.
His knuckles were scraped, and crusted saltwater still flecked his hair.
“Security’s talking with her to find out how this happened,” he said.
“The excursion company says she signed the return manifest herself, told both captains we were all accounted for.”
Lucy set her cup on the bedside table so hard the water sloshed over the rim.
Her heart hammered at how casually his words tumbled out: “Signed the manifest,” as if no one’s life had been gambled on her signature.
She closed her eyes and replayed the last memory she had of Karina under that blue umbrella: Karina’s careless smile as she checked her watch.
It was the same image she’d carried through every dark hour: the sun shining on equipment stacked neatly behind them, Karina’s eyes bright and untroubled.
But now every second of that moment felt like a trap door yawning open beneath her.
“She knew,” Steven said, voice stripped of any humor. He sat up just enough to nod at Adam, motioning for him to continue, but his gaze stayed fixed on Lucy, as though through her he’d reach the truth.
Lucy whispered, almost to herself, “Right.” She inhaled the antiseptic scent, reminded how sterile this world was compared to the mud-caked trail, the thunderclap of the storm, the taste of salt on her teeth.
“She knew before clearing either boat to leave. She would have had to.” A hollowness opened in her chest.
Adam rubbed both hands over his face, smoothing the stubble. “We have to confirm Marcel’s log with the radio record,” he said. “Karina says the message broke up. She thought he was only warning that they might have to leave.”
Lucy turned her head to study him. The caution in his phrasing—‘might have to leave’—sounded like a lawyer drafting a protective clause. It was the first defense he’d built for Karina since they landed. Cold rationality, built around doubt. “You heard what happened to us,” she said.
“I heard what happened after you came down from the trail,” he shot back, arms crossing as though preparing for battle. “I don’t know what happened to make the boats leave without you.”
“And I need you to know that she told us the boat would stay,” Lucy said. She traced the pattern on the sheets, trying to ground herself in something solid. She looked at Steven for strength; he squeezed her hand.
“She would never have deliberately left you,” Adam said. His tone was clipped, official. “The idea is preposterous.”
Lucy closed her eyes and felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. She’d survived a night in a broken shelter, armed only with strips of cover-up and a borrowed hatchet. Steven had nearly bled out gathering firewood for warmth. “Is it? Do you have any idea how scared we were?" Can you even imagine?”
Adam’s voice sharpened, loud enough for the doctor to glance over his shoulder.
“I know how bad it was! I lay awake last night picturing you washed out to sea. You don’t get to tell me I don’t understand.
” His fear had morphed into anger—anger he could direct, instead of the helpless dread of not knowing if she’d survived.
They fell silent, the unsaid hanging between them like a losed door. The doctor’s glance was patient, as though he were accustomed to partners lashing out in shock.
Before either could speak again, the door swung open and Karina stepped in, flanked by Daniel Rusk from Northstar, Officer Joseph, and a uniformed security officer.
Daniel’s linen shirt was rumpled, and gray stubble flecked his jaw.
Karina’s mascara streaked beneath her eyes, and she looked smaller somehow, her shoulders hunched.
She paused at Steven’s bed. Her composure snapped when she saw the splint on his ankle. She dropped to a halting stop beside the empty bed between Lucy and Steven, as though unsure where to stand. Her hands twisted at her forearms, leaving bruised impressions in her flesh.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, voice trembling. “I thought you were on the other launch.”
Steven said nothing. Lucy watched Karina’s face tighten as the ship’s doctor quietly drew back, offering him space while he evaluated her like an object lesson.
When Karina turned to Lucy, her lips quivered but her voice stayed steady.
“I thought both of you were back before the second launch pulled away. It was raining so hard. Everyone was scrambling, and one of the women was dressed like you. I believed it was you.”
Lucy felt the memory crowd in on her. Karina’s explanation sounded plausible—in isolation. But Lucy knew every detail of that day, and none of it fit the story.
“So who did you think was Steven?” Lucy asked.
Karina’s eyes flickered to the floor. “I...I don’t know. Someone tall.”
Adam bristled. He stepped forward, chest tight, as Daniel Rusk shifted his weight, pen poised over a notepad. This was evidence-gathering now, suits and badges triangulating a lie.
Officer Joseph flicked open a small waterproof notebook. “Marcel says he radioed you at two twenty-seven, told you the service boat was leaving with guides and equipment. Did you receive that call?”
Karina drew a breath, head dipping. “Part of it. The connection kept breaking. I heard the weather was worsening, that they might have to go.”
Joseph let his gaze sharpen on her. “The recording has you saying, ‘Understood. Load everything now.’”
Karina’s breath stuttered. She glanced at Adam, as if seeking rescue. Instead she found him holding back the anger she’d unleashed on Lucy—anger for her, for both of them.
Lucy forced her voice to stay even. “When did you tell us the boat would still be there?”
Karina’s voice was small, but fierce. “Everything was chaos. We were leaving in a hurry.”
Daniel jotted furiously. His face was unreadable.
Adam’s voice cut in: “Why didn’t you notice Lucy hadn’t claimed her phone?”
“It was in the excursion tote,” Karina said. She knew this would come up. “There were twenty phones in there. I couldn’t tell whose was whose. I’m so sorry.”
Lucy looked at her face, but turned away. This was about more than Karina now. More than who was or wasn’t the most important woman in Adam’s life. More than her invisibility as Adam’s fiance.
It wasn’t just that the company didn’t see her by Adam’s side; it was that Adam didn’t even notice when she wasn’t.
She took a slow breath, reached down to her left hand, felt the faint heat of the ring there. Swollen knuckles stung as she plucked it free. She turned her hand palm-up to him and let him lift it.
His face flickered with confusion. “Lucy?—”
“You didn’t notice I was gone,” she said, and closed his fingers around the ring. “And you don’t believe me now.”
She let her hand fall back to her side. The ring sat cold against his palm. Under the bright lights and the weight of every questioning glance, Lucy felt something crack open inside her.
“I can’t marry a man who wouldn’t notice I was missing.”
She was done explaining. The final witness was in his hand now: silent, unyielding evidence against doubt. And in that moment, the space between them was wider than any storm-tossed ocean.