Then there was Jonathan Maurice. He had stepped on a different kind of landmine during the last gathering—something involving his painting. While John didn’t know the specifics, Alistair had warned him before his first meeting with Elena: Avoid topics of parent-child relationships at all costs. And never, under any circumstances, talk about children. When John had pressed for more, Alistair’s expression had turned stone-cold. "Just do it," he had commanded.
John looked at Sierra now, wondering about Elena’s motives. Had she invited the couple to atone for what happened to Sierra? If so, why was Margaret here too? Was it a trap, or a cruel revenge on Jonathan regarding the painting incident?
It was hard to picture Elena feeling sympathy.
Even with Alistair, her care felt like a heavy, inherited burden. When John once complained about how difficult Elena was to deal with, Alistair had simply told him to avoid clashing with her. "She just feels responsible for me," he had said. "She’s the elder sister; that’s what she was taught."
Elena treated everyone like ants, creatures to be watched, or crushed if they stepped out of line. On the night her parents were murdered by her fiancé—who was then shot dead himself—she hadn't shed a single tear. Guests at the funeral whispered about her chilling composure. Relatives who were cut out of the inheritance had pointed fingers, even suspecting her of orchestrating the massacre. But the police had cleared her; she had been with Alistair the entire time, even when the gunshots rang out.
John used a low, soothing voice as he spoke to Sierra. "Luckily, they are only superficial scratches. Still, I recommend going to a hospital for a tetanus booster as soon as possible."
Jonathan looked at his wife, then back at John. "How long can that be delayed?"
"Within twenty-four hours would be best," John responded, gently elevating Sierra’s legs on the sofa.
Mr. Maurice hesitated, watching his wife’s absentminded stare as he waited for her to weigh in. John had his doubts but chose not to intervene. The Maurices were scheduled to leave the following morning; if they were reluctant to cut their stay short, they could still make it to a hospital in time once they reached the next city.
Sierra’s eyes suddenly regained their focus. She patted her husband’s hand on her shoulder. "I had a booster about three years ago, Jonathan. It won't be necessary to get another shot now, right, Doctor?"
Her husband’s brow furrowed in confusion. "Three years ago?"
"When I cut myself with the shears while gardening," she explained shortly. Jonathan’s eyes darkened in a split second, and he fell silent.
John nodded, noting the sudden shift in the room's temperature. "That should be sufficient, then. Just be sure to keep the dressing dry and change the gauze daily. If the redness spreads or she develops a fever, she must see a physician immediately."
Mr. Maurice walked him to the door. "Thank you, Dr. Williams. I’m sorry to bother you during your private time."
"Think nothing of it; it’s my duty," John replied. "I’m happy to help. And by the way—she can take two or three Aspirin a day if the pain becomes bothersome."
On the bridge deck, situated behind the wheelhouse and separated from the captain’s quarters only by the radio room, sat the card room.
A low-hanging brass chandelier spilled a pool of warm light onto a round table, which was surrounded by ten heavy armchairs upholstered in button-tufted leather. Elena sat deep in the chair facing the door, intensely focused on a small notebook. The fountain pen in her hand was a work of intricate craftsmanship, her initials engraved into the gold plate at its base.
Outside the portholes, the sky was bruising into a dark twilight. Margaret stood on the deck, shivering as the evening chill set in. She had used the sunset as an excuse to step out after finding only Elena inside, but her patience was fraying. The others were still lingering below under the guise of tidying up, and her useless husband was taking his sweet time on the dock, seemingly reluctant to part with his young secretary.
Losing her temper, Margaret let out a sharp, loud whistle. The old man on the gangplank looked up, meeting her gaze. He was about to ignore her until she pointed to her eyes, made a dramatic gesture of fumes erupting from her head, and finished with a swift thumb across her throat. The message was clear: The Watcher is angry. Get here now, or your head is on the block. He immediately cut his conversation short and turned toward the yacht.
"The Watcher" was the nickname the Prominent Seven had bestowed upon Elena. She maintained the illusion of having eyes everywhere at all times. None of them dared to test the limits of that reach anymore; they had tried vaguely crossing her lines in the past, only for warnings to knock on their doors within hours. Now, they understood that whatever they might gain by defying her wasn't worth the promised punishment.
Seeing Walter Johnson finally board, the others realized they could no longer delay the inevitable. They appeared one by one, like shadows filling the room. Margaret took a seat a few chairs away from Elena, watching them enter.
"Tigers with no claws, no fangs," she whispered under her breath, describing the group—conveniently forgetting that she, too, was merely a dog whimpering in the corner, no longer even able to bark.
Everyone sat in a heavy, stifling silence. Several minutes passed before Elena finally raised her head. She closed her notebook and placed it on the table alongside her pen. She looked around the room, her gaze like a physical weight.
"You’re finally here," she said, the words a quiet indictment of their lateness. Noticing the two chairs on either side of her remained empty, she raised an eyebrow. "Very thoughtful. Now I won't have to hear your bar— ahem voices up close. Let’s make this short."
She slid a stack of photos face-down across the tightly stretched, deep-red baize of the table. They fanned out perfectly, one photo per person. On the back of each, scrawled in ink, were the initials of the person the image had stopped in front of.
Noor Hudson—the reclusive painter and Elena’s cousin—was the first to reach for her photo. The others followed suit, their faces twisting in a grim, synchronized flinch as they saw the images.
Noor threw her photo back onto the table. It slid across the red baize, coming to a halt just inches from Elena’s arm; Noor let out a shaky sigh of relief that it hadn't actually made contact. She cleared her throat, her voice trembling slightly.
"What do you mean by this?" Noor asked. "Didn't you say you only took pictures for reference? Why are we in the frame?" Without even looking at the others, Noor already guessed their photos held the same incriminating perspective.
Elena didn't look up immediately. She was preoccupied with a separate pile of photographs—ones with no initials on the back.
"It is for reference," Elena said nonchalantly. "Who said I would only photograph the victims? Killers make for excellent reference material as well. There can be no victim without a killer, after all; I need the whole scene to get the proper perspective."