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Fuck.
The older man hits the water with a splash.
Then the yacht churns to life, the water around it surging white.
The sirens grow louder, police cars careening into the lot, too little, too late.
Because the ship lurches away at a dangerous speed a second later, even as a thin, high scream rises from the rear of it that hollows out my soul.
“Uncle Grant!” Nell screams, clinging to the railing at the rear, Mr. Pickle clutched in her arms.
Ophelia’s out of the car after me.
We bolt for the docks and I hold out my arms.
“Nell, jump! Jump in the water! I’ll come for you!”
She shakes her head frantically. “I can’t swim! I’m scared!”
“Jump, Nell!” Ophelia cries, flinging herself down and leaning over, grasping at the flailing older man who’s swimming clumsily toward the cement edge—the priest who was supposed to marry them, I think, judging by his black garb and collar.
Nell shrinks back and then justshrinkssome more, growing smaller as the yacht surges away.
“Uncle Grant...” she whimpers, the wind taking her voice away.
It’s a minor miracle the yacht doesn’t plow into anything on its way through the crowded water. Of course, that means it’s fucking escaping, going God only knows where.
I’m about to say screw it and dive in after her even though I don’t have a prayer of catching up, let alone scaling the damned thing with no equipment, but suddenly we’re surrounded by cars.
Officers come pouring out. Several stop to help Ophelia haul the priest up.
Too many people crowding around in the commotion, in my way, demolishing my heart.
I whirl around, glaring at one of the uniformed men approaching me.
“Call the fucking Coast Guard,” I snap. “That’s my niece up there. This is a kidnapping and they’ve got to intercept that—”
“We’ve already called,” he answers before barking something into his radio. “They’re at least forty minutes out.”
Shit.
Forty minutes too long.
Drenched with sweat, Ophelia pulls away from the tangle of people helping the gasping, red-faced priest and launches to her feet.
“That’s too late!” she yells. “He knows we’re onto them. Grant, he’s going to hurt her. There’s no way they’ll get to her in time—”
“Ophelia.” I catch her arm, despair rolling through me. “If the Coast Guard hauls ass, they’ll—”
“Fuck the Coast Guard!” she cries, ripping away from me.
For a second, I watch as she races across the marina.
There’s no shortage of rubberneckers at this point. People who were fishing, people working on their boats, even people who’d pulled over on the side of the road to stare at the spectacle and the growing riot of police cars.
One rubbernecker stands at the helm of his speedboat.
His mouth hangs open, slack-jawed while he stares through the swarming cop cars at the rapidly retreating yacht.
