Ryder's face flashed through her mind—the way he'd looked at her hours ago, the gentle strength in his hands, the promise in his eyes that she'd been too scared to acknowledge.
She should have told him. Should have stayed. Should have?—
White light.
Black ocean swallowed everything.
33
Ryder checked his watch.Almost six. Eight minutes until the supply boat.
He waited at the end of the dock, the wind cutting through his jacket. The docks were quiet except for the slap of water against pilings and the distant cry of gulls. Lambourne stood a few feet away, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. He’d been trying to make conversation for the past twenty minutes—weather, the business deal, some rambling story about Ivy when she was a kid.
Ryder tried Ivy’s number again.Fucking voicemail. Again.
Dead battery. Had to be. The alternative—that she couldn’t answer, that she was hurt?—
He shut that thought down hard.
She was fine. She’d talked to Jack, gotten whatever information she needed, and she’d be on that boat when it came in.
Except his gut screamed nothing about this was as straightforward as he was trying to convince himself it could be.
“You know—” Lambourne couldn’t seem to stand the silence any longer. “Once Ivy gets something in her head, there’s nostopping her. She used to dig up the estate looking for natural springs. Drove the groundskeeper mad.”
Ryder’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to hear stories about Ivy as a child. He wanted to see her step off that goddamn boat.
“She’ll be fine,” Lambourne continued, and Ryder couldn’t tell who he was trying to convince, Ryder or himself. “It’s a working rig. Dozens of people. She’s probably just lost track of time.”
Maybe. People lost track of time. Phones died. Innocent explanations existed for everything.
Except someone had already tried to kill her in the last twenty-four hours.
His nails dug into his palms. He should’ve gone with her. Should’ve insisted. Should’ve done a hundred damn things differently.
Instead, he’d let her handle everything alone.
The way she’d been doing her whole life, if Lambourne’s stories were any indication.
Lights appeared on the water. Faint at first, then growing stronger as the supply boat rounded the breakwater.
Relief hit Ryder so hard he had to lock his knees.
“There,” Lambourne pointed even though Ryder didn’t need him to. “That’s got to be them.”
Ryder’s boots were already hitting the dock hard enough to make the planks shake. Workers would disembark first—standard protocol, then any passengers. He’d see her in minutes. Blond hair, that stupid coat he should have burned, and the stubborn lift to her chin when she was trying not to show how cold she was.
The boat maneuvered alongside the dock. Lines were thrown, secured. The gangway extended with a metallic clang.
Workers filed off. Ryder scanned every face. Not her. Not her. Not her. The flow slowed.
Stopped.
The last worker stepped onto the dock, adjusting a duffel bag on his shoulder.
No Ivy.
Ryder was on the boat immediately. His steps rang on the metal deck as he moved through the passenger area, checking every corner, every shadow.
