Chapter 4 - CABIN 8142
Security searched the passenger manifest.
Martin Hartman was not listed.
Neither was Gregory’s mother, Elaine.
That should have reassured me.
It did not.
Rich people rarely needed to break rules when they could simply bend systems around themselves.
Ortiz instructed her staff to check upgraded reservations, travel agents, and last-minute passenger substitutions.
While they worked, I sat alone for the first time since the attack.
My wedding ring suddenly felt heavy.
Eight hours earlier, I had stood beside Gregory on the dock while strangers congratulated us.
He had kissed my forehead.
He had called me Mrs. Hartman.
He had held my hand while the ship pulled away from Florida.
I kept replaying those moments, searching for something I should have noticed.
Then the cabin phone rang.
I froze.
Ortiz had told me not to answer unknown calls.
It rang again.
And again.
Finally, I lifted the receiver without speaking.
A woman whispered.
“Ashlynn?”
I recognized the voice.
“Elaine?”
Gregory’s mother began crying.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
Like someone who had spent decades learning not to be heard.
“You have to get away from him.”
I stood.
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone.”
“Are you on this ship?”
Silence.
Then she whispered.
“Cabin 8142.”
The line went dead.
I called Ortiz immediately.
She arrived with two officers.
Cabin 8142 was on the same deck but several corridors away.
The reservation belonged to a woman named Margaret Ellis.
Ortiz knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again.
“Ship security.”
Something moved inside.
Then the door opened three inches.
Elaine Hartman looked through the gap.
I almost did not recognize her.
She wore no makeup.
Her hair had been pulled beneath a scarf.
A bruise yellowed the skin near her temple.
“Ashlynn.”
She opened the door.
Then she saw the security officers.
Fear exploded across her face.
“No.”
Ortiz raised both hands.
“We’re here to help.”
“You don’t understand.”
Elaine grabbed my wrist.
“Martin has people everywhere.”
She pulled me inside.
The room smelled like stale coffee.
A small suitcase sat open on the bed.
Inside were photocopies.
Bank records.
Medical reports.
Old photographs.
And one newspaper clipping.
Elaine handed it to me.
The headline made my stomach drop.
YOUNG BRIDE LOST AT SEA DURING PRIVATE YACHT TRIP.
The woman in the photograph could not have been older than twenty-six.
Dark hair.
Bright smile.
Her name was Celia Ward.
I looked at Elaine.
“Who is she?”
Elaine’s lips trembled.
“Gregory’s first wife.”
I stopped breathing.
Gregory had told me he had never been married.
Elaine closed her eyes.
“She died six years ago.”
May you like
Then she pointed toward the clipping.
“And Martin made certain everyone called it an accident.”
