“Damian.” I turned to him.
He was lying by my side, but didn’t respond. There was big, wide gash on the side of his head. Blood was oozing out and mixing with the rain.
“Damian!” I knelt beside him.
Oh God. Please wake up.
But his body was limp and his head rolled from side to side as the boat lurched like a bucking bronco.
“Damian, please,” I cried. I can’t do this alone.
The ocean swelled around us in wild, terrifying chaos. I needed him. I needed his fierce brutality to conquer the waves and take us to MaMaLu. I needed his frost and his bite and his unrelenting fury to power us through the storm.
“What do you do, Skye?” I thought I heard him say as I held his bleeding head in my lap.
I glanced at the cockpit. Damian hadn’t locked the radio up. It was still crackling with static. This was my chance—to escape, to get away, to make a run for it. So why was I still holding on to Damian?
Because he saved you.
Because he pushed you out of the way.
Because if you call the authorities, you know they’ll put him away.
Don’t be a fucking idiot, Skye. Make the call!
I stumbled to the radio, my stomach dropping every time the boat fell into a wave. I fiddled with the controls until I figured out which one I pressed to talk. I had no idea who was out there, in Mexican waters, or what the proper procedure was for a distress call.
“This is Skye Sedgewick. Hello? Can anyone hear me?”
Nothing.
“This is Skye Sedgewick. I am the missing daughter of Warren Sedgewick. I’ve been kidnapped, and am somewhere off the Pacific Coast of Mexico. Our boat is caught in a storm. We need urgent help. Please respond.”
I closed my eyes and held my breath. The contents of the cabin were spilling everywhere—books, charts, cushions, pens.
A garbled message came from the other end.
“Hello?” I prompted. “Are you there?”
More static, and then a man’s voice. He said something about not being able to receive the message clearly, and then I heard the word ‘phone’.
“Hold on,” I said.
A key was sticking out of the drawer that Damian kept locked. There were three things inside: a rusted metal box, a revolver, and a satellite phone.
“I have it!” I grabbed the phone. “What’s your number?”
I jotted down what the man told me and called him. My hands were shaking as I explained the situation.
“Where is the man who kidnapped you?” he asked.
“He’s hurt. He passed out.”
“Can you give me your co-ordinates?”
“I don’t know how to read the panels.”
I listened as he guided me through it, and then I read the numbers back to him.
“Is the boat on autopilot?” he asked.
“How do I tell?”
He talked me through it and had me set the course so we could meet his boat faster.
“We’re not too far. Hold tight. Don’t panic. Help is on the way.”
“Thank you.” I let out a deep, shuddering breath.
It was happening. I was getting rescued. I was going to make it through this dark tunnel of hell and high water; I was going to make it back to three kisses; I was going to have more Pancake Sundays with all the toppings I could dream of. Suddenly, I was filled with a deep longing to hear my father’s voice again, to let him know I was alive.
I dialed his number and waited.
“Hello.” He sounded groggy and tired. It must have been late where he was.
“Dad?” I wanted to weep, but I didn’t want to alarm him, so I clenched my throat to choke back the sobs.
It was so quiet at the other end—stillness—when everything around me was rolling and churning.
“Skye?” He fumbled. I knew he was looking for his glasses, as if putting them on would make my voice more real.
“Skye? Is that you?” He was completely alert now, completely awake.
“Dad.” I couldn’t keep my voice from cracking.
“Skye.” This time it wasn’t a question. He grabbed on to my name like he’d been flailing around for a lifeline and now he’d found it.