Marybeth walked to the rail because sitting still made her chest feel worse.
The sea stretched around them in every direction. The yacht moved under sail now, slow and steady, with the engine quiet beneath the deck. Arnulf had killed it before sunrise and told everyone they were saving oil. No one argued. They had joined his route to the island because no one knew where else to go.
Lance stood beside her with one hand on the rail.
His shirt was still stained dark, but the wound had closed. He looked tired, bruised, and pale around the mouth, but he was standing. For someone who had been shot twice in two days, he looked almost unfairly alive.
"How is she?" Lance asked.
Marybeth looked toward the cabin door.
"Malcolm's with her," she said. "She's still out. Been two days now."
Lance looked back at the water. His jaw tightened once, then eased. Neither of them said Cena's name for a while.
Marybeth turned and looked across the deck.
