23. Charlotte Gallagher
Charlotte Gallagher
My hair drips onto the floor as I twist it over the small sink, wringing out a stream of saltwater.
I should’ve cut it before this trip. Everyone’s chopping theirs off lately—like Emma Watson after the last Harry Potter. Even Zoe did it, and she swore she never would.
Instead, mine still hangs halfway down my back—thick, heavy, a nightmare when it’s wet. I twist it again, squeezing out more water.
Behind me, Jameson is talking nonstop.
“I’m telling you, it was this big.” He stretches his arms wide, which is impressive considering he’s still halfway stuck in his wetsuit.
I laugh and turn toward him. “That fish was not bigger than you.”
“It was! And it had teeth like—like—like this!”
He bares his teeth and growls.
I grab the zipper at the back of his wetsuit and tug it down. “You’re describing a shark.”
“Okay, it wasn’t a shark. It was a rainbow fish.”
I pause. “A rainbow, huh?”
“Yeah.” He wriggles his arms free, nearly knocking over a stack of towels. “Like purple and blue and green and orange all at once. And it looked at me.”
“Fish don’t look at people.”
“This one did.”
“Did it smile too?”
“Yes.”
I grin and peel the wetsuit down his legs while he hops around, trying not to fall.
Across the cabin, Dane groans. “Can he stop talking for five minutes?”
The shift is immediate. Jameson goes quiet.
My body reacts before I think—tightening, glancing over at him.
Dane stands by his bunk, dragging a T-shirt over his head, dark hair still wet, water dripping onto the floor.
He doesn’t look at me. He never really does.
Jameson stares at his feet.
I keep my tone light. It’s easier that way. “He’s just excited.”
Dane frowns. “That makes one of us.”
Ryan’s voice cuts in from the doorway. “Relax, Dane. He’s seven.”
Ryan’s always been good at that—stepping in before things tip too far.
He tosses a towel across the cabin, and Dane catches it.
Ryan leans against the doorframe, shoulders pink from the sun, hair already lightened from a few days in the ocean. He looks completely at ease, like he always does.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says. “Your mum said not to track water everywhere, little man.”
He glances down where Jameson’s wet footprints trail across the floor.
Jameson grins. “Too late. Sorry.”
I grab a dry towel and scrub it over his hair while he squirms. “Hold still.”
“You’re rubbing too hard!”
“Then stop moving.”
Ryan laughs.
Dane doesn’t.
I give Jameson one last pass and drop the towel over his head. “Go get dressed for dinner.”
He pulls it off, lets it fall to the floor, and darts to his drawer.
I turn to the mirror and start braiding my hair, working through the salt-stiff strands.
Above us, music plays. Voices drift down from the deck—laughter, chairs scraping, the low hum of engines kicking in somewhere deeper in the yacht.
“When we get to the next island, you have to come snorkeling with me,” Jameson says.
“I just went snorkeling with you.”
“You went for, like, two minutes.”
“That’s because you kept trying to chase fish.”
“They were chasing me!”
“Pretty sure that’s not how fish work.”
He tips his head back to look at me. “You promised.”
I did.
I smile and tap his nose. “Fine. Next island. I promise.”
Ryan pushes off the doorframe. “Five minutes, everyone, or Tara’s sending a search party.”
Jameson giggles.
Dane mutters something under his breath and pulls on a clean shirt.
Then—
POP. POP. POP.
The sound cuts through the air above us.
Jameson stops mid-sentence.
I blink.
Sharp. Too sharp to be something falling.
Dane frowns, glancing up.
Another burst.
POP. POP. POP.
Voices shout above deck. Not laughing anymore.
Ryan’s footsteps stop in the hallway, and the mood shifts instantly.
“What was that?” Jameson asks.
No one answers.
Ryan moves toward the narrow stairwell, slow and quiet, like he’s trying to hear.
Another crack echoes through the yacht.
He stops halfway down the hall, head tilted.
Something heavy thuds above us. Then running footsteps. More shouting—fast, angry, in a language I don’t recognize.
A cold, tight feeling settles in my stomach.
Dane steps closer to the hallway. “What’s going on?”
Ryan doesn’t answer. He’s gone completely still.
Another pop. Closer.
Jameson’s voice is small now. “What was that?”
Ryan turns back to us, and his expression has changed. Whatever calm was there a second ago is gone.
“Hide,” he says quietly.
He glances toward the stairwell again, listening, then looks back at us. His voice drops lower, sharper.
“Hide. Now.”
For a second, none of us move. Then another crack splits the air, louder this time, and Ryan’s head snaps toward the stairs.
“Move. Now.”
He grabs my arm and drags me down the narrow hallway below deck. The space feels tighter down here, the walls close enough that I have to turn slightly to avoid brushing them. Behind us, Jameson hurries to keep up, his bare feet slapping softly against the floor.
Another crack echoes above.
Ryan stops at a small door and yanks it open. It’s a cramped storage compartment—towels stacked high, cleaning supplies shoved into the corners.
“Get in,” he whispers.
I hesitate. “Ryan—”
“Charlotte.” Sharper this time. “Take him.”
Jameson’s already starting to cry, quiet little breaths he’s trying to hold in. I pull him close and duck into the compartment, crouching under the low shelf. There’s barely enough room for both of us.
Ryan leans in, his face tight in the dim hallway light.
“Stay quiet, and don’t come out until I come back.”
I nod.
The door swings shut, plunging the closet into darkness.
Jameson presses his face into my shoulder. “What’s happening, Lottie?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, and it sounds as thin as it feels.
Something heavy slams above us. The impact echoes through the hull, followed by shouting—multiple voices, sharp and angry. I can’t make out the words.
Footsteps pound across the deck, and Jameson’s grip tightens in my shirt.
Outside, Ryan’s voice again—low, urgent. “Dane, get in there.”
Dane answers immediately. “What the hell is going on?”
“Just do it.”
A door creaks open somewhere down the hall, and Dane mutters something.
Then everything goes quiet except for the water against the hull and the low hum of the yacht.
Jameson trembles against me. “I’m scared, Lottie.”
I wrap my arms around him, pressing his head into my shoulder. “It’s okay.”
Another sharp crack splits the noise above us, and Jameson jerks in my arms. My stomach tightens. I don't know for sure what the sound is, but I have a good guess.
Shouting erupts again—louder now. Something crashes overhead, followed by running footsteps and more of those same sounds.
My heart pounds so hard it feels loud.
I press my hand to the back of my brother’s head, holding him as close as I can.
“Shh,” I whisper.
Not for him.
For me.
Boots thunder across the deck. Something slams hard above us, then another shot—sharp enough to make him flinch again.
Then the yacht lurches.
Violently.
I’m thrown sideways into the shelving, bottles rattling and crashing down around us. Jameson cries out as the floor tilts, the whole boat jerking like something has slammed into it.
Metal screams somewhere deep in the hull.
A grinding roar follows—loud and brutal—shaking the walls, the floor, everything. The closet shudders as the yacht scrapes against something solid.
Jameson clutches my shirt, crying now. “Lottie!”
“I’ve got you,” I say, my voice shaking.
The grinding drags on, endless, like the boat’s being torn across rock. Something crashes nearby. Glass shatters.
Then it stops.
The silence that follows feels wrong.
No gentle rocking. No movement.
The yacht sits still, tilted at an angle.
Jameson sniffles against me.
At some point, the shouting stops too. I don’t know when.
Time stretches in the dark. Each second drags, slow and uneven.
Jameson is curled into me, his face pressed against my shoulder, fingers twisted tight in my shirt.
Above us—nothing.
No footsteps. No voices. No gunshots.
Just silence.
He lifts his head slightly, and I can feel him looking at me even though I can’t see his face.
“What’s happening?” he whispers.
I swallow. “I think something broke. They’re probably fixing it.”
It sounds weak as soon as I say it.
He doesn’t answer right away. His breathing stays uneven, like he’s trying not to cry again.
“Where are Mum and Dad?”
My chest tightens. “They’re upstairs. Probably talking to the crew.”
A door creaks somewhere down the hall, and a second later I hear Ryan’s voice.
“I think we ran aground. I’m going up to see what happened.”
“I’m coming with you,” Dane says.
“No.”
Ryan doesn’t raise his voice, but it shuts it down anyway.
“You stay here. Keep quiet.”
Footsteps move closer.
“Charlotte?”
I lean toward the door. “Yeah.”
“Stay where you are, and keep Jameson quiet. Don’t open the door.”
Another pause, then his footsteps fade, heading back toward the stairs.
Jameson presses closer. “Lottie?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared.”
I tighten my arms around him. “It’s okay. Ryan’s here. He’ll take care of us.”
It’s easier to say that than anything else.
Easier than thinking about the screams I heard earlier.
About how long it’s been since anyone upstairs made a sound.
About Mum and Dad.
I shut it down before it can go any further.
The hallway goes quiet again.
I listen to Ryan’s steps fade completely. Then nothing.
Jameson stays tucked against me, his breathing slowly evening out, though every so often his fingers tighten in my shirt.
“Is Ryan okay?” he whispers.
“I’m sure he is.”
I don’t know if he hears the doubt in my voice.
The boat feels wrong now. Too still. No gentle rocking—just the occasional creak somewhere deep in the hull.
Outside, nothing moves. No voices. No footsteps. Just wind brushing the side of the yacht and water somewhere beyond it.
Jameson lifts his head again. “Lottie?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we come out now?”
“Not yet.”
Silence stretches again.
Then—a creak in the hallway. Footsteps. Slow. Getting closer.
I hold my breath, and they stop right outside the door. Then the handle turns.
The door opens and light floods in, sharp enough to sting my eyes. Ryan stands there, breathing hard, like he’s been running.
For a second, he just looks at us.
“You can come out now.”
I push myself up, legs stiff and tingling. Jameson clings to my arm as we step into the hallway.
A door bangs open further down, and Dane steps out of the laundry closet.
“What’s going on?” he demands.
Ryan drags a hand through his hair, pacing once in the narrow space like he doesn’t know where to put himself.
“Just—stay down here. Don’t go upstairs.”
Dane frowns. “Why?”
Ryan hesitates, his gaze shifting to the stairs and then back to us.
“Ryan… where are Mum and Dad?”
His jaw tightens. “They’re gone.”
My stomach drops. “What do you mean gone?”
He shakes his head once. “Everyone’s dead.”
The words seem to suck all the air out of the room.
“Tara and Dad,” he adds, his voice rough. “The crew. All of them.”
“No,” Dane says immediately.
Ryan looks at him, and whatever’s in his face makes Dane stop.
“Bad people came aboard. I think they were trying to steal the yacht,” Ryan says quietly. “They shot everyone.”
Jameson makes a small, broken sound. I grab him, pulling him into me as my mind tries to catch up.
Mum.
Dad.
Dead.
“No,” I say again, but it barely comes out.
Ryan looks like he might say more, then exhales hard and scrubs his hands over his face.
“We ran aground,” he says after a moment.
I glance past him toward the small hallway window. Trees press close against the hull, leaves brushing the glass. The yacht isn’t drifting anymore—it’s tilted and wedged into the sand.
Ryan lowers his hands and looks at us.
His voice breaks, just a little. “We’re the only ones left.”
And that’s when I fall.
My knees give out, the floor rushing up to meet me.