That was almost an answer.
I said:
“I need the medical log.”
He froze.
“Why?”
“Because this vessel belongs to my family.”
That was not completely accurate, but it worked.
“Claire—”
“Show me.”
He looked toward the stairs.
Then lowered his voice.
“You should speak to the captain.”
“I am speaking to you.”
His discomfort deepened.
Then he said something strange.
“Please don’t drink anything you didn’t open yourself.”
My skin went cold.
“What?”
He stepped backward.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Please go back to your cabin.”
Then he disappeared down the service corridor.
I stood there for several seconds.
One thought replaced all others.
Get the log.
The captain’s office was locked.
I knew the Mercer Star well enough to know there was a backup key in the bridge chart cabinet.
My father had insisted on redundant emergency access years ago.
I found it.
Opened the office.
Inside, everything looked normal.
Navigation printouts.
Customs forms.
Maintenance reports.
Then I found the medical binder in a lower drawer.
I searched my name.
There were seven entries.
Seven.
We had been aboard three days.
The first was dated two days before we departed.
Passenger: Claire Mercer.
Medical note: history of stress-related vertigo, intermittent sedative use, panic symptoms.
I stared.
None of that was true.
I had never taken sedatives.
Never had panic-related vertigo.
Below it:
Spouse authorized to supervise evening medication if symptoms recur.
Signed:
Adrian Cole.
Not me.
The next entries documented “voluntary” doses.
Night one.
Night two.
Night three.
Doses I had never agreed to take.
Then a handwritten note from the nurse.
Patient appeared more impaired than expected. Recommend discontinuing all medication until physician consult. Mr. Cole objected.
Another note below:
Medication inventory discrepancy. Two blister packs missing from locked cabinet.
My hands began shaking.
I photographed every page with my phone.
Then heard footsteps.
I closed the binder.
Too late.
The door opened.
The captain stood there.
He looked at me.
Then at the open drawer.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally:
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
I held up the binder.
“Neither should this.”
His face changed.
“You saw it.”
“Yes.”
He closed the door.
That frightened me more than if he had called security.
“Who changed my medical record?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who gave Adrian access to medication?”
“He shouldn’t have had it.”
“Who is missing the blister packs?”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“Claire, I have been trying to reach your family security office since yesterday.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“Satellite communication logs were altered.”
“Altered how?”
“Outgoing calls from your personal account were being rerouted.”
“By whom?”
“I can’t prove it.”
“But?”
“Your husband.”
The room went silent.
The captain continued.
“The nurse confronted him.”
“That’s why she’s isolated?”
“She isn’t sick.”
“What?”
“She believed someone entered her cabin after she questioned the medication.”
“She asked to stay locked in the forward crew section.”
I stared.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“We tried.”
“Adrian intercepted us.”
The captain looked ashamed.
“He said your father had authorized him to manage your health because you had a history of anxiety.”
“That is a lie.”
“I know that now.”
My mind raced.
“How much does Thomas know?”
The captain’s eyes shifted.
Everything inside me tightened.
“All of it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Margaret?”
“Claire—”
“All of them?”
“I heard them arguing yesterday.”
“About what?”
“Money.”
That fit.
Adrian had been very interested in family finances before the wedding.
Not obviously.
Carefully.
Estate structure.
Trust protections.
Voting rights.
He said he wanted to understand the responsibilities that came with marrying into the Mercer family.
My father liked that.
Called Adrian serious.
Responsible.
I had loved that about him.
Now every conversation felt contaminated.
See more on the next page