Page 82 of Murder Island

“I’ve never seen you cry before,” I said.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Maybe you’re my only weakness.”

Dahir steered the boat toward a tiny peninsula jutting out from the mainland. I pulled out my cutlass and pressed the grip into his hand. He looked stunned.

“This is for you,” I said. “For marrying us—for saving us.” I ran my fingers over the gems on the hilt. “These will buy you a whole fleet of fishing boats, or a whole new life. Do what’s best for your family—and always keep your children safe.”

Dahir took the cutlass and held it tight against his chest. His mouth moved, but he couldn’t speak.

“It’s all right,” I said, patting his shoulder. “No words necessary.”

The keel scraped the sandy bottom as we glided toward the empty beach. We hugged Ayann and the kids goodbye, then hopped off and waded to shore. The peninsula was beautiful, dotted with banana trees. Fat, juicy crabs scurried across the rocks, and schools of fish wiggled through the shallows. It would do, for a while.

We waved as the boat pulled away. Then it was just the two of us. I pulled Kira close.

We had nothing.

And we had everything.

EPILOGUE

Three years later…

IT HAD TAKEN me most of the past two years to build the boat. I had some help from the locals, and from my wife, of course. But mostly I followed the plans in my head, and my own instincts.

She was a forty-foot schooner, twin masted, mahogany throughout. Dacron or Kevlar would have been smarter choices for the sails, but I went with original sailcloth from an island craftsman. For me, there was just something about the way it whipped in the wind.

The boat was resting in a deep lagoon near our hut. The sun was warm, and the water was transparent turquoise. Kira and I were sitting in a small skiff as she dipped a fine-tipped brush into a jar of gilt paint.

I’d left this final touch to her. She had a more artistic flair. And besides, the name was her choice. I sat back as she applied the last delicate stroke to the lettering.

Orion II

“How does it look?” she asked.

“Seaworthy,” I said.

The air filled with a high-pitched trilling sound. I looked up.

Leena!

Our two-year-old daughter was forty feet up, swinging on a line, with one arm waving free. She was a nimble climber with absolutely no fear of heights. We had trouble keeping her out of trees. And today she had apparently decided to scale the mainmast.

Kira shielded her eyes with one hand. “Leena! Come down!”

Leena’s face lit up. She had her mother’s smile, and her independent spirit. Whatever we told her to do, she found her own way to do it.

Instead of just shimmying down, Leena placed her bare feet on the top crosstree and launched herself into the air, legs and arms straight, head tucked between her elbows. Spectacular dive. From the height of a four-story building.

She speared through the surface with barely a ripple and started kicking underwater toward the far side of the lagoon. I watched her copper-colored hair bobbing and flowing with each stroke. It was as if she’d been born for the water.

“Like an Olympian,” I said to Kira proudly.

She wrapped her arms around my shoulders.

“No,” she said. “Like a Savage.”

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