“Patrick, about my past, I—”
He places his hand over hers. “Stop,” he says softly, eyes gentle. “It’s okay, Poppy. Or Helen.” He smiles.
She goes rigid at the sound of her old name. Her pulse begins racing off the charts. Fight-or-flight impulses crash through her simultaneously. She begins to hyperventilate.
“I did google you,” he says. “After Arra’s accusations. I had to. I read about your case. I read what Peter Doyle did to you. To be honest, poisoning seems far too kind a punishment when all other options are off the table, and the police were no help. I’d probably do the same,” he says in his posh British accent, as though poisoning people to death is an acceptable, everyday thing.
It’s Criminal:
The Mystery of theBlack Orchid
A Trinity Scott & Gio Rossi True Crime Production
Reenactment—INT.Black Orchid. Deck 14. Women’s Bathroom—September 2019
In the women’s washroom on Deck 14—while most of the ship’s guests are onshore—a housekeeper in uniform goes stall to stall, hurriedly cleaning toilets, wiping down basins and mirrors, clearing out dirty towels, and setting out neat piles of fresh ones. She begins vacuuming the floor, after which she will mop.
She slides the vacuum head under the counter beneath the row of basins, and something clunks and catches in the brush. It stops the powerful flow of air, and the vacuum begins to whine loudly.
She mutters to herself and pulls the brush out from under the counter. An EpiPen has been sucked against the nozzle.
She stops the machine, releases the pen, examines it, frowns, then slips it into her pocket. She finishes vacuuming and then starts with the bucket and mop. The clock is ticking. She needs to get this done before the tenders start running and the guests return.
She’ll take the EpiPen to the lost and found, along with several other items she’s picked up over the course of her cleaning today.
Poppy
Seven Hours To Impact
As soon as guests are permitted onto the tenders, Poppy rushes back to the ship, scans herself in, and hurries directly to her room. Patrick’s words dog her every step—she honestly feels like a lab rat where the scientists know the bigger plan, and are watching her scurry about in confusion and panic while just trying to survive, and all the while getting more frantic as she butts against maze walls.
As she opens the door, she feels the welcome coolness of the air-conditioned interior. The light inside is soft and diffuse—calming—because she left the shades drawn.
She steps inside, locks the door firmly behind her, and then attaches the security chain for double measure. She peers into the door peephole and checks the hallway.
No one outside. No one has followed her. She has survived Turkey. All she needs now is to hunker down in her locked room and wait things out until Roshaan comes to fetch her early tomorrow morning to board the tender for Santorini. She’s already booked a flight from Santorini to Athens. Followed by a connection to Heathrow. She’s almost home free.
Relief softens her limbs—she can breathe for a moment.
Poppy heads for the bar, aiming for a fat gin. A drink will calm her nerves enough to try to think all these pieces of this puzzle through. Unfortunately she’ll have to miss the Moonlight & Mentalism Soiree.That’s another thing she’s been excited for since the start of the trip, but it’s a minor loss in the scope of things. Triage—that’s what’s important now.
She reaches for the Hendrick’s, but as her fingers close around the bottle, she senses something. A presence in the room. A feeling of being watched. Hairs prickle down the back of her neck, and a chill crawls over her shoulders.
She swallows and glances in the mirror between the bar shelves. Reflected behind her, in front of the shaded windows, silhouetted by the late-afternoon glow of sun outside, is the outline of someone in a chair.
Poppy goes dead still.
“Hello, Poppy.”
Emotion slams through her. Slowly, she turns.
Avi Galev sits quietly, calmly, on a chair. Watching her.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says in his heavily accented English.
She drops the bottle and lunges for the door.
“Don’t,” he barks as she fumbles with the security chain. “Don’t even think about it. You won’t make it two steps down that corridor.”
