No glasses.
Only low deck lighting and the thrum of engines below.
I walked slowly toward the bridge.
Halfway there, dizziness hit.
I grabbed the wall.
Waited.
The boat’s chief purser appeared at the end of the corridor.
He looked startled to see me.
“Mrs. Mercer?”
“My name is Claire.”
“Of course.”
“Where is the nurse?”
He hesitated.
“Resting.”
“She’s been resting for a day and a half.”
“She’s unwell.”
“What does she have?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re the purser.”
“Yes.”
“You know everything.”
His mouth tightened.
That was almost an answer.
I said:
“I need the medical log.”
He froze.
“Why?”
“Because this vessel belongs to my family.”
That was not completely accurate, but it worked.
“Claire—”
“Show me.”
He looked toward the stairs.
Then lowered his voice.
“You should speak to the captain.”
“I am speaking to you.”
His discomfort deepened.
Then he said something strange.
“Please don’t drink anything you didn’t open yourself.”
My skin went cold.
“What?”
He stepped backward.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Please go back to your cabin.”
Then he disappeared down the service corridor.
I stood there for several seconds.
One thought replaced all others.
Get the log.
The captain’s office was locked.
