Under bright light, I smelled it.
Nothing.
I dipped a finger.
Bitter.
Not salty.
Bitter.
A memory surfaced.
That afternoon, one of the junior deckhands had been replacing a cabinet latch near the aft passage when he saw Adrian hand me a cup.
He had looked at the cup.
Then at Adrian.
Then away.
A tiny thing.
At the time, meaningless.
Now it bothered me.
I went back to the bedroom.
Adrian had rolled onto his side.
His breathing looked steady.
I dressed quietly.
Then left.
The Mercer Star at night was a different vessel.
No laughter.
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.”
