Daughter of Deep Silence (24 page)

T
he moment Shepherd sees me, his eyes go wide. “Frances!” He races toward me as I stumble through the kitchen door. I’m struggling to breathe, and not just from my sprint down the beach. Every time I close my eyes Thom is there. Standing in front of me. Shaking my hand.

Kicking down the door to my family’s stateroom.

Shepherd grips my shoulders tight, trying to get me to focus on him.

Lifting the gun.

“Frances!”

My mom staring past him. At me.

He shakes my shoulders.

My dad’s head snapping back surrounded by a halo of red.

“Shh, hey.” Shepherd’s hands shift to my cheeks, pulling my face close to his. So that his eyes meet mine only inches apart. “
Frances
,” he whispers. And I blink, struggling to focus.

“It’s okay.” He tucks my hair behind my ears. I can’t stop my teeth from chattering.

“Grey confessed.” I choke on the words. “All of it.”

Shepherd lets out a long breath in a hiss and eases back. I struggle to bring myself under control. Hating how my body shakes, how my voice trembles. How tears still leak from my eyes. I shrug out of his grip and turn, pressing my hands against my face and inhaling deep.

“Frances . . .” His voice is soft, filled with concern. I shake my head and he says nothing more.

With effort I force my blood into a hum, my heart into a duller rumble. Adrenaline still spills through me, making my stomach roil, and I twist it into cold anger rather than fear. “Grey told me everything.”

When I turn to face Shepherd, he leans against the kitchen island, hands braced on the counter by his hips, giving me space. Outside lights flicker in the distance, the storm huddled on the horizon, kicking up lightning. It takes several moments for the thunder to find its way to us, a muffled
thump
and shudder.

I move to the windows, watching the shadows thrown by the patio floodlights—sea oats tangling and dipping in the wind of the approaching storm. Pressing my hand against the glass, I think of the waves, whipping and rising under the pressure of the roiling clouds. Turning from smooth glass to jagged shards.

In a steady voice, I recount everything Grey told me about the
Persephone
. Shepherd pulls out a chair, sitting with his elbows braced against the kitchen table and his head cradled in his hands. He says nothing, just listens, and when I’m finished there’s only the sound of the wind and rain.

“But he doesn’t know the men behind the actual attack? Why they did it?” he asks.

I turn and lean against the wall, shaking my head. “Only that there was someone on the ship in their way and they needed to get rid of them and secure the Senator’s loyalty.”

I blow out a frustrated breath, trying to put all the pieces together and failing. “But I’ve already researched the other passengers. I checked them all and there was nothing.”

“Maybe Grey was lying,” Shepherd offers.

There’d definitely been something he was holding back, but I don’t think it was this. “No, I’m missing something—some connection.” I shove my hands through my hair, tugging.

“Then let’s go through it again,” he says.

Sighing, I pull my cell from my pocket, call up the familiar webpage with photos of the
Persephone
passengers, and toss it toward Shepherd. “Ship’s manifest,” I explain.

His forehead furrows as he scans down the page. But I don’t hold my breath. I’ve spent so many hours scouring every last detail of the
Persephone
that I practically have it all memorized. I let my head fall back against the wall, remembering.

“Three hundred twenty-seven souls on the ship,” I recite. “One hundred seventy-nine male, one hundred forty-eight female. Forty-seven of them kids. Mostly all of them families on vacation. A few girl trips. A couple of corporate retreats. Five couples were celebrating anniversaries and—”

“
Holy shit
,” Shepherd breathes, cutting me off.

I swallow what I’m about to say next. I don’t even have to ask, Shepherd just turns the screen for me to see. The photo is familiar—the environmental group by the Amazon River, their arms around one another.

I don’t understand the significance. “That’s the Gaia Agape group,” I tell him. “There were fourteen of them on the
Persephone
for their annual meeting. I checked them all out—nothing stood out about any of them.”

He stands, running a hand over his head, agitated. “You wouldn’t have noticed.” He lets out a bitter and incredulous laugh. “That’s the thing,
no one
would make the connection unless they were really looking.”

“I looked,” I interject.

“But you didn’t have the right perspective,” he explains.

I cross my arms over my chest, hating the implication that in all my years searching I’d missed something. “Which is?”

“I’ll show you,” he says as he turns and starts from the room. He keeps talking as I chase after him. “The Senator likes to talk about conservation and all of that—gives lip service to the stuff I’ve been working on down here. It looks good and all, but there’s no action behind it. It ticked me off, which is the reason I started looking into his position on other environmental issues—to see how big of a hypocrite he was.”

He weaves his way through the house to a tall dark door at the end of a marble hallway. Without the slightest hesitation, he throws it open and steps inside, but I pause on the threshold.

It’s Cecil’s office. I’d come in here my first day here to grab the bottle of bourbon so I could poison it before handing it over to Cynthia the party planner. But I hadn’t lingered. Hadn’t wanted to spend any more time than necessary surrounded by things that were so very much
him
.

As Shepherd boots up the computer, I take my time circling the room. Two of the walls are dominated by bookcases, most of the shelves filled with what you’d expect from a man of Cecil’s stature and wealth: a collection of leather-bound first editions, framed photos of him with important individuals, antique tchotchkes brought back from faraway lands. I run my finger across them all, wondering about the man who in one breath lost his daughter and wife and in the next gave refuge to a total stranger.

It’s hard to find fault with the kind of man who takes in strays like Shepherd and me. Because of Cecil, there was no door closed to me. Except the one to my past. That is why I both love him and hate him.

He saved me, in so many ways: from the ocean; from the tides of whatever system I’d have been thrown into back in Ohio. But the one lifeline he’d cut from me was to that of my own identity.

At the time it had seemed so simple and clear, his reasoning so solid and understandable. Of course it would be easier for me to take his daughter’s place, to assume her life. And it’s not like the thought of becoming Libby didn’t hold its own appeal.

Frances’s future was nothing but a gaping black hole. Not Libby’s. She still had a brightness to her. Alive I’d envied her. Dead I could become her.

Sometimes I think I had no idea what I’d been giving up when I accepted Cecil’s offer. But that’s not the truth. I’d known exactly what I was jettisoning—a solitary life of uncertainty, trauma, and pain. It had never occurred to me that the
Persephone
was something Frances could recover from. It had destroyed her more thoroughly than a bullet.

Except that she is still there inside me, growing restless. Perhaps I should have had more faith in her. Perhaps I should have given her a chance.

Perhaps she is stronger than I realized.

“So here’s the thing,” Shepherd says, interrupting my thoughts. He calls up a webpage and starts typing. “I noticed that the Senator’s played a pretty big role in the United States’ acquisition of oil from Ecuador. Which is, of course, pretty shitty for the environment. But there’s one area in particular that’s been at issue.”

He clicks on a map, zooming in on an area in South America. I move around the desk to peer over his shoulder. “The Bundios National Park,” he says, pointing. “Thousands of square miles of pristine rain forest with a couple of isolated indigenous tribes. And, of course, it’s sitting on massive oil reserves.” He turns and looks up at me, his eyes bright with conviction.

“Close to a decade ago, Ecuador entered into a deal with the Bundios Preservation Fund that, if they could raise the money, Ecuador would put the entire area under protection and prohibit drilling.”

“Okay,” I say, wondering where this is going.

“Well, the Bundios Preservation Fund was really just a coalition of various environmental groups, the most prominent being Gaia Agape. For a while it actually looked like they were going to pull it off and then . . .” He lifts a shoulder. “The whole deal just sort of collapsed. But not all at once. A few celebrities stepped in, trying to raise awareness but they were never able to raise the money they needed. It was never all that clear what caused it to fail, but it seems like the trouble started about four years ago.”

He pauses, waiting for me to make the connection. When I do, I frown. “Which is when the
Persephone
sank,” I point out.

He nods. “Exactly. The
Persephone
went down, wiping out most of the Gaia Agape leadership. The same people who were the key players in the Bundios Preservation Fund.”

My heart races at the possibility that we’ve uncovered something important, but I hold myself back, not wanting to set myself up for disappointment. “You think that’s who Grey was talking about?”

He sits forward, face flushed with excitement of this discovery. “Here’s the connection: Once it was pretty clear the whole endeavor was going to fail, a small private company stepped in and offered Ecuador a substantial amount of money for drilling rights in the area. And Ecuador didn’t have much of a choice in accepting it because the US had just significantly cut the amount of aid we sent to them.”

He waits for me to put the pieces together, and when I do a flood of anger pours into my system. “Let me guess,” I bite out. “As a ranking member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Senator Wells was influential in determining how much aid the US sent to Ecuador. Which means he could push the US to cut that aid in order to force Ecuador’s hand with the Bundios National Park.”

He nods. “Plus he was instrumental in negotiating a deal so that the US became one of the largest purchasers of Ecuadorian oil.”

I pace across the room to the wall of windows. Outside, rain pummels the ground, sending steam from the sunbaked concrete hissing into the night air. But as I think it all through I realize just how absurd it all sounds. “So, what, take out an entire cruise ship just to kill fourteen people?” I ask, turning toward the desk.

He lifts a shoulder. “It worked, didn’t it?” He says it so matter-of-factly that my rage only grows.

“It shouldn’t have!” I spit back.

“Think about it—there’s no easy way they could have killed that many people without arousing suspicion,” he offers. “They had to make it look like an accident so no one would ask questions.”

I yank on the ends of my hair in frustration. “There are so many other ways to pull it off,” I shout. “Think about the amount of effort that attack took! All the ways it could have failed.”

“But it didn’t,” he points out again. “Everything worked out. They got rid of the core Gaia Agape leadership and put Senator Wells in their pocket. The Bundios Preservation Fund failed and the Senator fixed it so that Ecuador had no choice but to sell off the oil rights.”

My head aches and I rub at my temples. Exhausted. Heartsick. “To what end?”

“Money?” he offers. “Power? The company that bought those drilling rights—DMTR—took in several billion dollars in sales last year alone. Almost all of it from the US.”

Something jolts in my memory. That name—DMTR. I think back to when I’d hastily searched the Senator’s office after rescuing Mrs. Wells. There’d been a stack of folders filled with financial documents—all of them with
DMTR
stamped across the top. There’s no way it can be a coincidence.

“
Holy shit
,” I whisper, dropping into a chair as it all falls into place. “The Senator’s been getting money from DMTR,” I explain. “He’s had a stake in this entire scheme.”

S
hepherd and I sit in silence, minds spinning through the revelations. Now that I know the truth I feel numb.

And I wouldn’t have figured it out if it hadn’t been for Shepherd.

He’d held the piece of information I’d been missing. “Why didn’t you mention Gaia Agape and the connection with the Senator before?”

He lets out an incredulous laugh. “Why would I? Until this week I didn’t know there was any reason to question what happened on the
Persephone
. I didn’t even realize that’s what caused Gaia Agape to fold—I had no idea they were on that ship. I just knew they couldn’t raise the money and the whole deal collapsed.”

I run a hand over my face, reading between the lines of his answer. If I’d only talked to him earlier . . . if I hadn’t kept him at a distance all this time . . . if I’d trusted him . . . the truth would have come out years ago.

The what-ifs unravel endlessly.

Except there’s still a piece missing. “You ever heard of a guy named Thom Ridger?”

Shepherd thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “Why?”

I consider telling him that Thom’s the man who killed my parents and who shook my hand earlier tonight. A shiver presses through me at the memory and I pull my feet up onto the chair, wrapping my arms around my legs.

He stands, coming around the desk. “Why?” he presses.

If I tell him that one of the men involved in the attack is in town he’ll want to call Morales. He’ll say it’s too dangerous. If he was worried about me meeting Grey on my own earlier tonight, there’s no way he won’t pull the plug once he learns about Thom.

And he’s right. Thom is deadly. He’s a murderer and probably the one who sank the
Libby Too
. But once we call Morales, this is all over. I lose control.

The cops have to follow rules. I don’t.

If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that no one else will ever be able to make the Senator pay. Even if there was an investigation, the worst that would happen is there’d be a few hearings. Maybe his Senate seat would be at risk; though, given South Carolina’s history of reelecting disgraced politicians, even that is unlikely.

No, I want Senator Wells to pay. And I want to be the one who makes it happen. That’s why I’m here. There’s nothing else left for me. No future to return to.

There is only this. And I don’t intend to let anyone stop me.

Shepherd looks at me expectantly, waiting. I lift a shoulder. “He’s no one.”

He frowns, eyes searching mine, waiting for more. But he should know by now that I can outlast almost any silence. Finally, he lets out a long sigh and sits back against the edge of the desk. “Have you ever talked to anyone about what happened on the
Persephone
?”

I lift a shoulder. “Dozens of people. Shrinks, therapists, hypnotists, doctors. You name it, I’ve talked to it.”

“But did you tell them the truth?” he counters.

The corners of my lips twitch, but not in any way that resembles a smile. “Who cares about the truth?”

“Look, I’m your friend here, okay? This is what friends do—they talk. They help each other out.” When I don’t respond, Shepherd tilts his head to the side. “Do you even have any other friends?”

I’m about to shoot back a smart-ass response but the way Shepherd’s looking at me I realize he deserves better. I actually consider the question. There were girls at school I was friendly with, but none I felt comfortable getting close to. We always hit a wall, a limit to how much I was willing to share about myself. I was afraid of messing up—mixing Frances’s memories in with Libby’s.

Plus, a part of me had grown to resent the other girls in my class. Girls who complained about inconsequential things like allowances, homework, and vacation destinations. There were times my palms bore bloodied indentions from my nails, me squeezing my fists to keep from erupting.

Your problems are petty!
I wanted to scream at them.
Watch your parents get murdered and then spend a week lost at sea as the only person you have left in the world dies! Then see what really matters in life!

It was safer for everyone for me to keep to myself. That way I wouldn’t have to care when I was the only one left in the dorm during a school dance. I wouldn’t have to care when none of the other girls invited me home over long weekends.

And I wouldn’t have to care when school ended and we all went separate ways.

“Anyone?” Shepherd prods.

I shake my head.

“Has it been this way since the
Persephone
?” There’s concern in his voice—but there’s more than that. Anger, almost. I can’t stand the thought of his pity. The thought of his caring at all. I don’t want anyone caring about me anymore. The reason I don’t have friends is because I don’t need them. I don’t need anyone.

“I’m going to bed,” I tell him, standing.

But his hand shoots out, grabbing my elbow. “You can’t keep pushing people away.”

“Watch me,” I fire back, trying to twist out of his grasp. The girl trapped inside me—the girl still drowning and desperately in need of help—howls to give in. To fall against him and let him put his arms around me and tell me it will be okay.

Just please, for one minute, let someone else carry the burden of all this pain. I fight against her, wrestling her into submission.

I’d given in to her once tonight and look where it got me.

“Frances.” He says it like a warning but it strikes more like a slap. A bitter reminder of who I’m supposed to be and why I’m here.

I am Elizabeth O’Martin
, I remind myself.
I am cold destruction, calculated retribution.
I try to pull ice around my heart, but Shepherd’s touch on my arm is too warm, melting through it.

“So if you don’t get close, you can’t lose them? You can’t get hurt?” he asks.

“It’s worked for the past four years.” I glare at him, daring him to contradict me. “I was doing just fine before.”

“No, you weren’t.” His grip softens along with his voice. “That’s a lonely way to look at life. Trust me,” he says, trying to meet my eyes. “You have to let someone in, Frances.”

I think about Grey. About his lips against my collarbone, his hands dancing along my hips. I think about how easy it is to see that he’s broken when you know where to look.

And how I’m broken in all the same ways.

But I wouldn’t be broken if it weren’t for the
Persephone, I remind myself.

If it weren’t for Grey and his lies.

For the Senator and his greed.

The familiar warmth of rage fills my heart. Who needs anyone else when I have this? “No, I don’t.” I turn on my heel and stride from the room.

“You don’t know how to let people care about you, do you?” he calls after me.

I freeze, my back bristling.

“You should try it sometime. You might actually find you like it.”

As much as I’d love to turn and face him, I don’t. Because I don’t want him to see the truth: that I know he’s right. And it still doesn’t matter. “I did once,” I tell him. “And then they all died.”

He comes up behind me. Not close enough to touch. Just enough to lower his voice. “Everyone dies, Frances.”

I shake my head. “Not like that, they don’t. Not ripped away.”

“You blame them for taking your life away back then, and maybe they did. But you’re the one keeping life at bay now.”

I inhale sharply, ready to argue, but he doesn’t let me. “You’ve got to let someone in, Frances,” he says, slipping past me into the hallway. “Even if it’s not me. Yes, it’s a risk and, yes, it’s scary. But that’s what life is.” He shrugs and starts for his room, leaving me standing alone. “You should try it sometime.”