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A figure is silhouetted on the bow of another boat. Sean Murdoch is holding a rope in his hand, which is attached to an orange ring. Florence is next to him, helping pull Cyrus towards them.
‘She killed my boy,’ groans the old man, as he releases his hold on me and cradles Angus, rocking his body back and forth, sobbing.
Murdoch has no sympathy. ‘Well, I guess that makes things even.’
30
Cyrus
It’s strange how quickly anger can disappear and adrenalin can leak away, when the source of it is lying dead in a pool of his own blood. I know the signs of ‘post-adrenalin blues’ – the depression and disappointment and the questioning of choices – but I feel none of that. My only concern is for Evie.
Reunited on Sean Murdoch’s boat, I held her against me, listening to her sobs and smelling her hair and feeling something shred inside me.
‘I killed him,’ she whispered.
‘You saved my life.’
‘All I could think about was Mama and Agnesa and those poor migrants.’
‘Shhh.’
‘And then I thought of losing you, too. And I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .’
‘I’m fine. We’re safe.’
Florence is moving about the galley of Murdoch’s boat, wrapping us in blankets and brewing cups of tea. Hot and happy with relief, she opens a packet of sugared biscuits and offers them around.
‘You shouldn’t have left me,’ she says accusingly.
‘I’m sorry. I thought we could—’
‘Do this alone?’
‘Something like that.’
Florence explains how she found my note and rode to the Waterfront Inn. By then, Isla Collie had alerted Sean Murdoch about what had happened at the pub and they set out to find us.
‘How did he know where to look?’ I ask.
‘The Watergaw has some sort of tracking device that is picked up by satellite.’
I smile at the irony of that.
Evie is still leaning against me. She sits up and pushes me in the chest.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘You saved his life.’
‘He was drowning.’
‘He was going to kill us.’
‘I know.’
‘That makes no sense.’
‘Not everything does.’
