Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
My husband sips his electrolyte water, staring vacantly ahead, a wool blanket wrapped around his body. They told us not to drink too fast or we could get sick, though I don’t think I could chug anything if I tried. I barely have the energy to lift the bottle to my lips.
“How did you find us?” Slade asks one of the coastguardsmen, blinking slow.
“We received a tip from Boat Watch, a national volunteer organization,” he says. “Someone spotted your vessel via sea plane and it matched a BOLO report that had just come in yesterday out of Palm Beach.”
“Bolo?” I ask.
“Be on the lookout,” he explains.
“What day is it?” Slade takes a sip of water, his lips chapped and almost colorless.
“It’s Monday, sir,” the man answers. “9:52 AM.”
That means we weren’t reported as missing until yesterday.
One more day could have been the difference between life and death.
“We should be back to the shore in a few hours, so hang tight,” the female officer tells us. “An ambulance is going to meet us there and take you to the Lower Keys Medical Center for evaluation. They might want to keep you overnight for observation.”
Lower Keys? I had no idea we’d drifted that far south.
Resting my head against Slade, I close my eyes, promising myself I’ll never take the gift of life for granted so long as I live.
Victor is waiting with my parents at the hospital when we arrive. My mother throws her arms around me, genuine tears springing from her eyes as she squeezes me so tight I can’t breathe.
“I thought you two were in Bali on your honeymoon,” she says, cupping my face. “Why weren’t you in Bali?”
“Blythe,” my father says, shooting her a look as if to tell her now is not the time.
They place the five of us in a private room together as various nurses, doctors, and staffers shuffle in and out taking vitals, starting IVs, and assuring us we’re going to be fine.
“Where’s the hell is Oliver?” Slade’s jaw is clenched, much like the death grip he’s had on my hand since we were transferred to the Coast Guard ship. His eyes are darting, alert as they can be, as if his vigilance could possibly safe me from any other unexpected threats. I suspect it’s going to take a while for him to calm down.
“Hiding.” Victor forces a hard breath through his nostrils. “Like a coward.”
As chance would have it, Fiona spotted Oliver driving around town Saturday afternoon, which seemed odd to her since we were all supposed to be on the yacht until Sunday. She stopped at the house to see if we were home, only to discover we were still gone. When she tried calling our cell phones, they both immediately went to voicemail since we were out of range. From there, she contacted Victor and told him what she knew. Within hours, he’d contacted the police, my parents, the Coast Guard, and hired a private search and rescue team.
“If you’re up to it, the police would like to ask you some questions,” one of the nurses tells us when she pops in.
“Send them in,” Slade says. “The sooner we can press charges, the better.”
One uniformed policeman and a plain-clothed detective step inside, introducing themselves before firing off question after question.
From the sounds of it, they have to get a judge to sign off on the arrest warrant, and since all evidence points to this being premeditated, he’ll be charged with two counts of attempted murder in the first degree. In the state of Florida, those charges can often carry as much weight as if the murders were successful.
“Let’s just skip the legal bullshit,” Slade says when the officers leave. “Put me in a room with him. I’ll make sure he gets what he deserves.”
“The consequences he’ll have to face will be far worse than anything you could ever do to him,” Victor says. “His life is over. He’ll spend the rest of it behind bars. No more yachts. No more beautiful women. No freedom. And no trust fund—though I did some checking into it. Turns out there is no trust fund. He’s blown through it all.”
Slade’s jaw clenches, and while he says nothing, I’m certain we’re all thinking the same thing.
“He’ll have to liquidate his assets to pay for his legal fees, though it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s borrowed against every last yacht in his fleet,” Victor says. “I told my father that twenty-five was much too young for him to have full control of his inheritance, but he refused to listen.”
“You doing okay?” Slade turns to me. He’s asked me this same question at least a dozen times in the last few hours. I’m not sure if he keeps forgetting or if he’s simply worried about me, but I give his hand a squeeze and offer a weak smile.