"I'm not sure," Gregory answered, too desperate for answers of his own to question her motives. "I didn't look closely."
Elena’s lips curled into a sinister smirk. "Why the rush? Think carefully. Man or woman? Young or old? Did any of them stare intensely, or actively avoid your gaze? Or... did they look at Yvonne?"
Gregory tried to recall the faces of the Numbers, frantic to distance himself from the madwoman standing before him.
When they had sat down for lunch, he had taken a quick look around. He had been trying to choose the perfect victim for his planned entertainment. The method he’d spent two years dreaming up required a robust body—someone who could stay alive as long as possible. Because of that, he hadn't glanced at anyone else after spotting a man in his forties who looked durable enough to survive what was coming.
But he always kept a backup plan, just in case someone else claimed the man first. There was a woman who looked like she would make a decent, grotesque flower vase. And she did look kind of...
“Now I remember!” Gregory blurted out. “The woman at the end of the table. She had an air about her—I can't quite describe it, but she seemed impatient. And when we shook hands, I noticed a strange leather bracelet peeking out from under her sleeve. I think I've seen it before, but I can't recall where or when.”
Elena retreated, finally giving him the space to steady himself.
“The Numbers were seated in numerical order, starting from One," she said, her eyes narrowing. "What number was she?”
Gregory grimaced, suddenly acutely aware of the food sticking to his clothes, but he answered anyway. “She was the one before last. Six.”
Elena clicked her tongue, clearly disappointed. Either she had been expecting a different answer, or she had already noticed something wrong with Six and was fishing for validation.
She slid her fountain pen back into her purse and adjusted the ballpoint pen anchoring her hair. A few strands had strayed during her sudden movements; she noted mentally to secure it with a proper tie once she got back to her cabin. The pen needed to slide out easily, not get entangled at a crucial moment. That would be an embarrassing way to fail.
As Gregory waited anxiously for her to leave, he debated whether he should relay her questions to the other Prominents. Her suspicion clearly carried weight.
Before stepping outside, Elena paused. “Did you meet the Importer today?”
Deep in thought, weighing the potential payoff of ratting Elena out, Gregory flinched at the sound of her voice. He hadn't realized she was still lurking. He nodded quickly.
“Did you happen to see him leaving the yacht?” she pressed.
Gregory's internal questions were piling up. He wasn't brilliant by any means, and he knew he’d need to inform the rest of the pack to help him deduce a way out of this stupid game.
Why would he care if the Importer stayed or left?
He shook his head, “I don't know, he dropped them off and disappeared. We didn't want to interact more with him.”
Only when the faint sound of her footsteps finally faded into the distance did he release the breath he’d been unknowingly holding.
After carefully checking the bridge deck with Connor, Yvonne returned to her cabin. She clicked the door shut, hurried to the bed, and jammed her arm into the tight wedge between the bed frame and the nightstand—both bolted securely to the floor. After a frantic moment of groping for her hidden stash, her fingers finally brushed against cold metal. A sharp grin of relief lit up her face as she carefully slid it out.
Meanwhile, Elena had just retrieved the ink illustration—smaller than a standard document—from Mr. Maurice. She knocked on a door a few cabins down. No answer. She knocked again, calling out, "Yvonne? You in there?"
The door creaked open, and Yvonne peeked through the crack, her expression sour. "What brings the esteemed writer to my presence?"
Elena, noticing the foul mood, resisted the urge to chuckle. She could guess the reason. Amateurs, she thought. And they still think they can go against me. Hiding her disdain, she leaned in. "Remember your last victim? From the last gathering? Did the tattoo on his neck look real, or could it have been a sticker?"
Yvonne raised an eyebrow, instantly sensing a deeper, more dangerous motive behind the question. The gears in her head turned rapidly. Crossing her arms, she leaned against the doorframe, keeping the door open just a fraction of an inch—ready to slam it in an instant. There was still a self-righteous 'justice defender' hunting her, after all.
"How should I know?" Yvonne countered. "The lighting was dim, and I was enjoying myself. Why would I waste time checking a random detail? What does he have to do with why this gathering is falling apart?"
"Not that I expected you to remember if it was matte or glossy," Elena mocked. "But was it smooth to the touch? After all, I’m sure you’ve spent the last two years reminiscing about your hands clamped around his neck, just waiting for today. I bet you didn't guess you'd be the one in danger of dying this week."
Yvonne ignored the taunt, pressing forward. "Tell me why you’re suddenly curious, and I’ll answer truthfully."
Elena paused, seemingly pondering the trade-off for a few seconds. Then, she leaned into the sliver of open space, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Because he might not be dead after all."
Yvonne’s eyes widened in sheer shock. Impossible. She had personally sent him to his end. Could she have missed something? If he was back for revenge, why wasn't she the first one to die? Was he saving her for last, wanting her to savor the same helplessness she had inflicted on him? But she had confirmed his death before he was thrown into the—
"Hey. What about the tattoo?"
Elena’s sharp voice snapped her back to reality.
Panicking, Yvonne blurted out, "It felt sticky, but maybe that was just sweat!"
She slammed the door shut before Elena could say another word.
Back inside her cabin, Elena attached the illustration to the blank first page of her prized notebook. She flipped to the final page—the end of the story—and hurriedly scribbled down a sentence, then signing her name with a sharp flourish. She hesitated for a beat before resting her fountain pen inside the binding. Finally, she sealed the notebook inside a plastic bag, slipped it into a manila folder, and hid it away carefully in her drawer.
She exhaled a long, deep sigh, as if a crushing weight had finally been lifted from her shoulders.
Turning around, she dragged a briefcase from a hidden compartment beneath her armchair. She tossed in the photos she had taken of Walter earlier. Surrounding them were hundreds of other photographs and dozens of palm-sized cassettes—a meticulous, decade-long record of their secret gatherings.
Elena pulled out the photographs from the last gathering, flipping through them one by one. She stopped at a shot of Yvonne. On the floor beside her, a man was weakly struggling. His neck was partially obscured, but the black lines of the tattoo seemed to merge horribly with his bulging blue veins and the raw, red scratches of his own fingernails.
Inside the cabin directly opposite hers, Alistair sat paralyzed on the edge of his bed. His eyes were fixed mindlessly on another copy of the confiscated book— A Droplet in a Bucket. John paced circles around the small room, his brow deeply furrowed as he tried to get a response out of him. But no matter what John said, Alistair remained completely unresponsive.
Finally, Alistair forcefully tore his gaze away from a specific paragraph on the page.
"Do you think I'll be 'accidentally injured' before this yacht docks?" he asked calmly.