Page 8 of Shiver Me Timbers

“I’m not joking,” I whisper, in case that wasn’t clear.

“Neither am I.” Duncan’s knuckles are white where he grips the steering wheel. He glares straight ahead, like his head is fused on his neck. Like he can’t bear to look at me.

The floor drops away beneath me, and I sway on my feet, pained and dazed.

Well. There’s my answer, I guess. Sucking down a queasy breath, I stumble out of the wheelhouse.

Four

Duncan

Ellie spends the rest of the journey sitting at the back of the boat. She looks so sad every time I glance back there, huddled against the wind, arms wrapped around herself like that makeshift hug is the only thing holding her together.

It kills me to see her like that—feels like a red hot spoon digging around my chest—but I use every last ounce of my self control to stay planted in the wheelhouse.

Someone has to steer this boat. And besides, I did the right thing.

Didn’t I?

The moon looms overhead, waxy and accusing. It’s getting dark now, with only a pale smudge of light along the horizon. The stars glitter between clumps of cloud.

The water is dark and choppy. No dancing pod of dolphins to escort us tonight—only this salty breeze, getting colder by the minute, and the terrible silence stretching between us. My jaw aches from gritting my teeth.

Ellie didn’t mean it. As we approach our starting coordinates, the boat slowing to a crawl, I remind myself of that fact for the hundredth time. She didn’t mean what she said.

Oh, she maythinkshe meant it. She may believe it with all her heart, but like I said before: Stockholm Syndrome. Coming to live with me has messed with Ellie’s mind.

There’s no other possible explanation. I’m old enough to be her father, for Christ’s sake, and besides, Ellie is… light. Goodness. All things warm and sweet and fun, while I’m… not.

I’m really not. I’m a sour old bastard.

And I may want her more than my next breath, I may choke out her name between gritted teeth every night, but I’ll never do something she might come to regret.

Killing the engine, I leave the wheelhouse lights on and step out onto deck. Ellie’s a huddled shadow at the stern.

The sudden quiet is deafening. There’s only the slosh of water against the hull, the unsteady thump of my heart, and the ragged breaths I pull into my lungs.

I want you more than anything in the whole world.That’s what she said. The words are seared onto my brain, playing over and over in a torturous loop, her sweet voice ragged with desperation.

And… I could’ve handled that better.Should’vehandled that better, because I didn’t even say thank you, did I? And even if those feelings aren’t real, they’re still flattering; still more than I could ever hope for. Ellie and me? That’d be like Red Riding Hood shacking up with the grizzled old wolf.

Clearing my throat, I scrub my palms on my jeans and walk along the deck to join Ellie. She seems smaller than she did fifteen minutes ago—like a deflated balloon. The life has gone out of her, and I hate that.

The wind toys with her red curls. She’s retreated inside Pete’s old sweatshirt, hands bunched in the sleeves and chin tucked in the neckline.

Throat tight, I sit on the bench at her side. It’s colder than I expect, the chill seeping through my pants, and the air tastes like vinegar and brine.

“We’re here,” I say, stating the obvious.

Ellie is silent.

“I thought we’d wait in the quiet for a while, then if there are no signs here, we’ll move along.”

Ellie sniffs. I wait for more, but that’s all.

Christ, but this is killing me. I see what she means whenever she teases that I don’t carry my half of the conversation, because this silence is pressing on my chest.

“That podcast said that the first sign of the Wailing Woman is mostly, uh…”

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