Page 166 of The Company

Almost comfortable.

Like I didn’t kill thirteen people with poison a year ago, then steal the boat’s tender and take a plane to LA to start a new life.

It feels… like that never happened.

It feels… like I’ve been forgiven.

Or maybe… it feels like a mission accomplished and a well-deserved homecoming.

I walk calmly down the hall and climb the ladder that will take me up to the main level, then turn the corner and climb again until I can feel the cool sea breeze of a summer night.

Yes. This is my home. The sea triggers all those familiar feelings of safety and comfort.

I can hear my father talking to the staff in the above-deck dining room and he sounds relaxed and at ease. But why shouldn’t he be? He’s the one in total control here. I glance out at the Orange County city lights. The harbor is a busy place, so there is a lot to look at. I wish I was out there. As much as I do like this ship, I didn’t come here of my own free will. So regardless of what my father says, I am a prisoner.

The above-deck dining area is really built for partying. In fact, that’s what it’s called on the ship map hanging in the casual dining area a deck below. The party deck.

The area is open on three sides, with half walls that give the appearance of a room and a ceiling, with subtle, atmospheric lighting. The living area seats fifteen. There’s a fireplace, two couches, an assortment of chairs, a coffee table, and a bar off to the side. The furniture is comfortable and stylish, but it’s made to withstand the elements. The salty sea and the blazing sun.

On the other side of the living room is the dining table. The head and foot of the table do not have chairs. They have small couches similar to a settee. My father is sitting in the one on the port side, while my place is the same exact spot on the starboard side of the table.

“Ah,” my father says as he stands, placing his napkin on the table as he waves me over to the other place. “You look better. How are you feeling, Harper?”

“Fine.” I don’t mean to answer him so quickly. I actually think it’s a bad idea to talk to him at all until I get more of my bearings. But old habits die hard.

When my father asks you a question, you respond politely. And that’s exactly what I did.

I walk over to the place set for me and wait for the staff to pull my chair out and then push me in.

I don’t recognize my attendant and my father must notice that I’m wondering who he is, because he says, “Davis is… no longer with us.”

“Oh.” Does that mean he quit? Or does that mean I killed him with the others when I poisoned the water last summer?

I don’t ask and he doesn’t offer. But I know it’s the latter.

I have to swallow hard to get past that realization. Davis was a part of my life since I was born. I’m a terrible person. A terrible, evil person.

I push that thought away and pick up my napkin, placing it on my lap like the lady I am. I have impeccable manners in a formal setting.

The servers appear with bottled water and they place one down in front of me.

I look at my father and he smiles. “You can’t be too careful.”

I just stare at him.

“Did you make a call to your James, then?”

I shake my head. “No, sir.”

“Why not?” my father asks, as he holds his empty glass out for the staff to take and then accepts a new drink. He prefers whiskey. Good, strong, American whiskey. Which is funny, if you ask me. Because it’s so cheap. You’d think a man with all his money would move on to Scotch or brandy. Isn’t that what refined men on boats drink in books?

“I have nothing to say to him,” I whisper.

The server brings me a salad. The greens are the kind that taste sweet and not bitter. My father gets the bitter leaves. So he really did have this meal made specially for me. Why?

I lift my salad fork and start to eat.

“Harper?” my father asks as soon as I take a bite, forcing me to grab my napkin and swallow down the food in a rush so I can answer.