Page 121 of Grave Matter

“No one will hear you in the storm,” he says grimly, wrapping the rope around my shoulders quickly, pinning my arms to my sides. Then he steers me to the couch, plunking me down.

I try to bite him, but he has quick reflexes.

“Stay here!” he commands, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Don’t move. I’m doing all of this to help you, Syd. You have to trust me.”

“Trust you?” I exclaim as he turns and goes up the steps two at a time until he’s on the deck. He turns the engine on, and it comes to life, loud, rumbling and shaking the boat.

Oh my god. He’s really going to try and leave with me. He’s serious. He’s kidnapping me and taking me with him into the storm. We’re going to die!

I’m going to die.

I’m going to die and wake up strapped to an operating table.

I get up and run over to the galley kitchen. With the way my arms are pinned down, I struggle to open the drawers. I keep watch through the portholes at the side, watching as Kincaid’s legs go past, the sound of ropes being unfurled. I manage to pull a drawer open, leaning just so to try and get my fingers around a knife. I have no idea how I’m going to stab him like this, but it’s better than nothing.

By the time I have the handle in my grasp, the boat starts moving backward, waves slamming into the stern.

We’re loose, no longer tied to the dock.

“Oh fuck,” I whimper. Suddenly, the GPS console at the chart table comes alive, and I can hear beeps from on deck. Kincaid must be plotting a course, using the autopilot on the system in the cockpit, which is showing up on the downstairs chart.

I go over to it, trying not to accidentally stab my thigh with the knife, and watch as the boat’s location shows on the chart. He’s plotted a course out of the inlet and across the open to Winter Harbor.

Fuck.

I eye the VHF, wondering if I can get up on the table, if I can then manage to grab it. Maybe there’s some emergency button to hit. Or if I hold down the depressor on the mouthpiece and shout for Mayday, maybe they’ll hear me.

Kincaid will hear you too, I think.And then what will he do?

I have to take my chances. It’s worth a shot.

I drop the knife, unable to climb with it safely, then get up on my knees on the bench seat. I’m trying to balance, leaning toward the table, when a wave hits the boat from the side. I yelp and go flying against the communication consoles, knocking loose something that had been stuck in there.

Feeling bruised, I stare at the small square piece of white paper that flutters down onto the table.

A Polaroid picture.

The Polaroid picture I’ve seen Kincaid carry with him, seen him staring at with so much longing that I was always too afraid to ask what it was.

But now, it’s staring at me, right in the face.

And it’smyface.

I’m staring at a picture of myself.

Except, I’m…different.

I have long brown hair, black nail polish, wearing my Miss Piggy shirt with my pajama bottoms. Kincaid is sitting on the floor next to me, his arms around me, clad in ugly reindeer pajamas, and there are some unwrapped presents at our feet.

We’re both smiling at the camera, looking happy.

At the bottom of the photo, in my handwriting, it says:

Syd + Wes Xmas at Madrona 2023.

I stare at it, blinking hard, trying to comprehend.

2023?

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