Page 13 of Swept Away

“That’s fine. That’ll be fine.” My voice sounds strange, too. “That’s hours. We’ll be rescued any minute now, definitely.”

Three hours pass in a bizarre, unfathomable blur. We search for flares. There aren’t any. We’ve got most of the basic stuff Penny keptfor guests on the boat—the IKEA plates and mugs, the two saucepans, the white bedding that fits on the awkwardly sized bed—but either she never had life jackets and flares on here, or she’s taken them off. She left a little first aid kit tucked in a cubbyhole in the bathroom, though, so that’s something. And though the battery is flat, we do have water—there’s a tank set into the frame beneath the bed, labeled “white water (fresh).”

Zeke is in the living space, staring at the battery banks under the trapdoor in the sofa; I’m in the bedroom. I needed to get away. He’s so…I don’t know. Sohere. Everywhere. This houseboat isverysmall, and he’s always so close to me, this wide-eyed, broad-shouldered guy somewhere between a sleepy teenager and a confident man.

I press my back to the wardrobe and close my eyes.Breathe. Breathe.I’m sticky with sweat and fear, but of course I can’t use the shower: no power. Earlier I changed into a white T-shirt and gray jogging bottoms, but I’m boiling now—the sun is fierce, and the boat is becoming stifling.

“Lexi?” Zeke calls.

I keep my eyes closed. A hot shiver passes over me. It’s not like I can ignore him; he knows exactly where I am. There’s nowhere I can go, no way to walk away from him.

I’d be the first to admit that I have a pretty low opinion of men, generally speaking. Experience has taught me that they’re useless at best and dangerous at worst. I know that good ones must exist, but I’ve met very few. Instead, I’ve been walked out on, betrayed, let down. I’ve been groped in bars, harassed at work—nothingterrible, nothing that would beat any other thirty-one-year-old woman’s stories, but all that bog-standard awfulness has meant that right now I can feel myself looking at Zeke a little differently as the day wears on.

This morning I saw him as a frightened kid, but just now whilehe was looking at the battery banks, crouched down on the floor, T-shirt pulled against the muscles of his back, he had looked somale, and like such a stranger. He’s not actually a kid: he’s twenty-three. That’s young, but not that young. A man can do a lot of harm by the age of twenty-three.

We’re stranded here together, and we’re strangers, and all of a sudden I’m feeling so aware of what it means to be trapped somewhere with a man I don’t know.

“Lexi?” he calls again.

“I just need a minute,” I shout back, and I wince as my voice breaks slightly.

“Oh. OK. Sure.”

He sounds surprised.

I know nothing about this man. I have the things he said to me in the pub—which could all be lies—and his own assertion that his father once owned this houseboat, and that now it belongs to him, even thoughsurelyPenny would never have sold it without telling me first. What if he did this on purpose? What if he’s faking the shock? What if this isn’t a stupid accident—what if he’s stealing Penny’s houseboat? What if he’s kidnapping me?

I lift my hands to my forehead and look around, trying to calm my breathing. I need to get a handle on this situation. I need to get back in control. My gaze lands on Zeke’s bag, open on the floor by the bed, his waistcoat from last night stuffed into the top. I barely hesitate before dropping to my knees to rummage through it.

Clothes, basic toiletries, his wallet. His driving license saysEzekiel Ravenhilland shows a picture of a man with short hair and a beard; at first glance my stomach lurches, because it looks nothing like him, but actually, once I look at the eyes, I realize this is Zeke with his curls cut off. They’re such a defining feature, he looks totally different without them.

My heart does a little hiccup as I find his phone charger, curledin a neat nest of wire. My phone is still switched off; it looks so sad on the side table, black and dumb. There’s a spare pair of boxers in here, some tissues, gum, plus a pack of condoms I recognize, and another one—flavored. I tend to associate flavored condoms with teenagers, or, occasionally, with men who really want a blow job and have seriously misunderstood the reason they’re not getting one. I’m not sure what to make of this except that it’s surprising.

My hand stills on the last object in the bag.

It’s a soft leather sheath, about thirty centimeters long. I pull it out and unfasten the clasp. I expect it to open like a regular bag, but instead it unfolds, like a wallet.

Inside are six knives.

I breathe in sharply, almost dropping the whole thing. Why the hell would this man have a set of knives in his duffel bag? I put them down on the floor and sit back on my heels, breathing fast. My back scrapes against the side of the bedframe.

This boat. It is too small. I close my eyes tightly and imagine myself safe at home, standing in the middle of the rug, Mae’s pens and coloring books scattered everywhere. I can almost smell the gravy from dinner the night before, a meal eaten on the sofa in front ofEastEnders; I can almost hear the cars shooting by on the road outside, making the window rattle in its frame. Then I open my eyes, and here I am, stuck in the North Sea on a houseboat with a man who might well be planning to kill me in my sleep.

I hitch myself up to sit on the edge of the bed and drop my head into my hands. Zeke seems so harmless. I remember how he was last night, how he made my body light up, howgoodI’d felt in his arms. But then there’s the aftertaste, the next thought: he’s still a stranger, and he’s a man, which means he’s strong and capable of cruelty.

And then there’s that professional-looking set of murder weapons in his duffel bag. Which isreallysayingserial killerto me right now.

I hear Zeke moving around in the kitchen, just on the other side of the door, and I flinch, pulling my arms tightly around myself. My heart is thundering in my chest as I wait for him to come in, but he doesn’t—his footsteps move away.

I can’t stay in this room forever. Right now I have the advantage—I have the knives, and he doesn’t know I have them. I shake out my arms, irritated to find myself curled in a ball like this. This isn’t me. I reach down to pull the smallest knife from its sheath, testing the point with one finger and then wincing in surprise as it draws a tiny drop of blood. They’resharp.

I crack open the door. Zeke is nowhere to be seen, which means he’s on the deck, or possibly in the sea, which right now I am feeling pretty fine about.

The first thing to do, surely, is make sure there are no other potential weapons available to him. I turn to the kitchen, glancing toward the deck before I check the drawer where the knives live.

There are no kitchen knives.

I check in the tiny sink, and the even tinier drying area beside it—no knives. I check the cupboards, my movements becoming increasingly frantic, my grip on that little knife tightening. There aren’t even any scissors. I know there were scissors before—I saw them when I was rummaging around for coffee this morning.

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