Ryan stops at a small door and yanks it open. It’s a cramped storage compartment—towels stacked high, cleaning supplies shoved into the corners.
“Get in,” he whispers.
I hesitate. “Ryan?—”
“Charlotte.” Sharper this time. “Take him.”
Jameson’s already starting to cry, quiet little breaths he’s trying to hold in. I pull him close and duck into the compartment, crouching under the low shelf. There’s barely enough room for both of us.
Ryan leans in, his face tight in the dim hallway light.
“Stay quiet, and don’t come out until I come back.”
I nod.
The door swings shut, plunging the closet into darkness.
Jameson presses his face into my shoulder. “What’s happening, Lottie?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, and it sounds as thin as it feels.
Something heavy slams above us. The impact echoes through the hull, followed by shouting—multiple voices, sharp and angry. I can’t make out the words.
Footsteps pound across the deck, and Jameson’s grip tightens in my shirt.
Outside, Ryan’s voice again—low, urgent. “Dane, get in there.”
Dane answers immediately. “What the hell is going on?”
“Just do it.”
A door creaks open somewhere down the hall, and Dane mutters something.
Then everything goes quiet except for the water against the hull and the low hum of the yacht.
Jameson trembles against me. “I’m scared, Lottie.”
I wrap my arms around him, pressing his head into my shoulder. “It’s okay.”
Another sharp crack splits the noise above us, and Jameson jerks in my arms. My stomach tightens. I don't know for sure what the sound is, but I have a good guess.
Shouting erupts again—louder now. Something crashes overhead, followed by running footsteps and more of those same sounds.
My heart pounds so hard it feels loud.
I press my hand to the back of my brother’s head, holding him as close as I can.
“Shh,” I whisper.
Not for him.
For me.
Boots thunder across the deck. Something slams hard above us, then another shot—sharp enough to make him flinch again.
Then the yacht lurches.
Violently.
