A Sea of Shattered Glass

by Kyla Stone

  Micah went back inside. He thanked Javier for covering for him. He circulated the dining room, serving his tables, smiling on cue, laughing at the guests' jokes, cracking a few of his own.

  And all the while, the secret smoldered like a burning coal behind his eyes.

  9

  Amelia

  Amelia skimmed the curves of her 18th-century Guarneri, trailing its delicate stem, the smooth varnished wood. She curled her fingers around the long, graceful neck and put the bow to the strings. She coaxed out the first notes, warm and golden as sunlight, the sound sliding from the strings bright and vibrant and full.

  She played in the Jazz Lounge on Deck Four, where the cruise director had given her permission to practice each of the last four days. Several passengers and even a few crew and staff showed up daily and sat in the back row to listen. Tomorrow they would dock early in Grand Turk; she needed to practice extra today.

  She closed her eyes, imagining she was onstage, the expectant hush of the crowd a thousand strong, their faces hidden by the glare of the overhead lights. She imagined she was at Juilliard.

  Her heart squeezed as the music flowed through her fingers, building and swelling and filling the entire room. Usually it calmed and centered her, brought her back to herself. But lately, it just hurt. The violin had never been a source of conflict or angst. It was always beautiful and perfect, the one thing she loved without guilt, the one thing she and her father shared.

  But without Juilliard, everything was tainted. Her failure was a secret shame gnawing away at her. A shame that would only get exponentially worse once her father found out. Every passing day tightened the knot of anxiety in her belly. Nothing could loosen it.

  And then, on top of it, the pressure her father put on her over Senator López. Her father wanted the Senate confirmation guarantee in hand before he even went after the president’s nomination. But Senator López clearly wasn’t interested. And yet, somehow it would still be her fault. She’d been playing her father’s games for years. She’d hated them for just as long. But she couldn’t say no. She could never say no. After all, he’d saved her life.

  As she played, a memory surfaced, sharp and sudden. It was two years ago, right before one of the annual fundraising galas for her mother’s charity, the Women Choose foundation, a nonprofit dedicated to women's reproductive rights in developing countries. Of course, the millions of contraceptives shipped overseas all came from Declan's companies, always paid for by someone other than Declan himself.

  Amelia had been sitting in front of the vanity mirror in her bedroom as her mother wove a trio of fishtail braids down her back. She remembered how her mother's eyes were smudged with shadows, her skin tinged sallow. “Are you all right, Mom?”

  “I'm fine, honey,” she said mildly. “Now, let's go over everything again.”

  Amelia tried not to roll her eyes. “Tyler Horne. Founder of the nanotech microchip thingy startup.”

  “He's young, handsome, powerful, and brilliant. But he has a weakness for thrills. He's a gambler. Racked up massive debts to the syndicates. He'll want to flirt, but dangerously. Which means—”

  “Never be alone with him.”

  “Right. Next. Jefferson Kellogg.”

  “CFO of the National Bank.”

  Elise wound her fingers expertly through Amelia's hair. “His wife is leaving him. It's punctured quite the hole in his enormous ego. He's floundering without her. Act like everything he does is amazing—that's what his soon-to-be-ex did.”

  Amelia sighed. “Got it.”

  “He's a flirt, but he would never try anything. Horne, on the other hand . . . If he gets a certain gleam in his eyes, you find yourself a quick exit.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Her mother shook her head, averting her gaze. “Never mind that. The ability to read people will serve you well. No one is ever what they seem. Everyone has layers, fears and weaknesses and personal demons. Some you learn to avoid, to protect yourself. Others you can use to manipulate to your own purpose.”

  “Like Father does.”

  “Sometimes. As long as you pay attention, you'll be fine.”

  Amelia stared at herself in the mirror. She'd rather go to a party—or better yet, stay home and watch horror movies with Silas or practice Bach's Largo from Sonata no. 3, which she'd been working on all week for the upcoming Washington International Competition for Strings. “Why does he always make me do this?”

  “Your father is intelligent. He knows what he's doing. Everyone loves attention, especially from a pretty young girl. It just—it smooths things.”

  “Sometimes it makes me feel . . . gross.”

  The light dimmed in her mother's eyes. “We all must use the gifts we've been given. Use what you have. Your beauty is a great gift. The world is a much harsher place without it. Trust me.”

  “It takes time away from practicing.” Her father wanted her to play, so she played almost every extra moment she had. He wanted her to be the best. So she wanted to be the best.

  Elise smiled at her in the mirror. “Oh, my darling. I adore you. So driven, so focused.”

  “But I still don't see why—”

  “This is what your father wants. So this is what we do.”

  Everything she did was to please her father. Everything. But still. “What about what we want?”

  Elise knitted her brows. “We owe an enormous debt to your father. He saved us both. Everything we have comes from him. Remember that.”

  Amelia studied her mother in the mirror. Her mouth was pinched, her gaze strained. “Saved us from what?”

  Elise never talked about the time Before. Only that she'd been nothing, had nothing, and Declan saved her. He was not Amelia’s biological father, but he might as well be. To her mother, he was. She never spoke of the 'genetic donor' who contributed half of Amelia's DNA. Declan had taken her in when Amelia was a baby. And he was the one who'd engineered the medication that saved her. The meds that kept her alive, kept her brain from turning to mush.

  He brought both her mother and Amelia into this life of luxury and glamour, and gave them everything they had, including Amelia's life. For these things, Elise worshiped him. And she expected nothing less of Amelia.

  “Much of the country is a cruel, dangerous place,” Elise said softly. “Count your lucky stars every day that you are safe. It's all that matters.” She gave Amelia a weary smile. “You're all that matters.”

  Amelia hadn't asked more questions then. It was no use prying further. Her mother never gave any other answer. She kept her past—and her secrets—hidden somewhere deep inside herself.

  Now Amelia closed her eyes at the memory’s fresh sting. Everyone had their own secrets, these days. Including herself. She swept her bow across the strings, her fingers moving deftly. The haunting song filled the lounge, trembling in sweet and bitter tones.

  She'd done her best and still screwed up. With her father. With Silas. She still wasn't sure how it had all gone so wrong, so quickly. And she didn’t know how or what she could do to fix it.

  She opened her eyes, letting her gaze flit across the seats as she played. She recognized the guy in the last row. The security guard, Gabriel Rivera. Her heart jolted a little.

  She noticed someone else. A big guy several seats over from Gabriel. He was muscular, his neck as thick as his square-shaped head. He stared straight at her, his lips slightly parted in a leering half-smile, his eyes hard and shiny. Her heart gave another jolt, this time in alarm. The way he watched her made her uneasy. Like she was prey.

  She flubbed a note, crossing the strings. The sound scraped her eardrums. She shook her head, shoving out every thought. Gabriel, Silas, her parents, that weird, unsettling guy in the back. She couldn't think about them. Not now.

  She needed to practice even harder and longer if she was ever going to be good enough. And she would be. She had to be.

  She switched to Bach's Chaconne from Partita no. 2 in D Minor, a complex, ex
acting piece, but also hauntingly beautiful. It demanded her full concentration, every ounce of her best technique. She played with her whole body, mind, and soul. She focused on the music until it flowed through every inch of her, filling her up, thrumming through her fingertips. Until there was nothing else.

  And then it was suddenly noon. She finished up with Dvorak and Barber, opening her eyes as the last notes faded into the stillness. That other guy was gone, but Gabriel was still in the back, watching her intently.

  Heat flushed her cheeks as she tucked her violin in its case and walked past the circular sofas and coffee tables. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.” He gave her a slow, languid smile as he stood up. “Nice song.”

  “You enjoy Barber’s Adagio for Strings?”

  He shrugged. “Never heard of the guy. Do I have to be a classical musical snob to enjoy some great sound?”

  She smoothed her sundress. “No, of course not. I’m glad you liked it.”

  “I mean, I’m partial to good ‘ole rock ‘n roll myself. Some Queen, Guns ‘N Roses, Aerosmith.”

  Her flush deepened. She didn’t know all the latest pop songs. She didn’t have time. “Sorry, never heard of them.”

  “What? They’re classics!” He ran his hand through his hair. “How about Journey? ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’? Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “They were my dad’s favorites. He used to play them all the time. The crew lounge does karaoke on Wednesday nights. We do classic rock. Passengers aren’t supposed to go down there, but I’m sure we can bend the rules for you.”

  Her shoulders tensed. The Health Summit was on Wednesday night. Only three days away. “I’m sorry. My father has an event.”

  “Okay, well, my offer still stands, you know.”

  She raised her brows. “Oh?”

  He gave her a smug grin. “Just let me know when you get bored of all your stuffy events and want to do something that’s actually fun.”

  She glanced toward the exit, remembering her mother’s warning. Your father wouldn’t like it. She cleared her throat. “Thanks, really. But I have a spa appointment with my mother at one.”

  His jaw tightened. Something passed across his face, too quickly for her to read. “Sure. See you later, Amelia Black.”

  She kind of liked the way he said her name, emphasis on lia. She blushed again, turning away to hide it. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about that lopsided grin, that dimple in his cheek.

  Be careful. Amelia tightened her grip on the handle of her violin case as she walked through the royal promenade. She was careful. She was careful every moment of every day.

  10

  Willow

  Willow took the elevator to Deck Thirteen and went down the hallway to the aft suites. Her heart thudded so loudly, she was sure someone would notice. But no one did. Every cell in her body thrummed with excitement. Her mother’s wristband seemed to pulse in her pocket. It was day five of the cruise, and it was finally her time.

  She’d spent the last two days scouting marks. It was crazy what these people left lying around, sometimes stuffed inside a bag at least, but sometimes not. It was so easy to snag something. She just reached over and slipped it in her pocket or bag as she walked by. Every time, a thrill hummed through her. It made her feel alive in a way that nothing else did. Like she was actually doing something. Like it mattered.

  She’d managed to stuff her beach bag with a couple pairs of designer sunglasses, a gold ankle bracelet, a platinum Rolex watch, a pearl earring someone had dropped, and a turquoise sarong she’d give to Zia once they got home. But so far, she hadn’t bagged anything that really mattered. She was still waiting for that big opportunity, the one that would get her into college and out of the dead-end future yawning before her like a bottomless pit.

  That opportunity was today.

  Yesterday, she was a patient big sister, taking Zia and Benjie on the Flow Rider and managing to not freeze to death in the snow room. She'd spent hours in the pool training Benjie to paddle around without a life jacket. They'd gorged themselves on fresh fruit and fancy fish and pasta dishes they couldn't pronounce, let alone remember.

  She’d watched them tackle the climbing cave from the safety of the ground. Glacier Rock was designed like some alien ice cave. The curving white walls were ridged with hand and foot holds that retracted and extended in different places. The nearly invisible harness and wire attached to slim crevasses in the walls and ceiling, allowing you to climb upside down if you wanted. Which she definitely did not want to do. Just watching Benjie hanging upside down two-stories above her head made her stomach revolt.

  After the climbing cave, they'd died in all sorts of gruesome ways in the Xtreme Worlds gaming center. Benjie loved the dinosaurs one so much, they spent all afternoon fleeing from T-Rexes and raptors. They were so realistic that she felt the pebbled texture of their reptile skin, smelled the foul breath spewing from their blood-soaked jaws right before the 'Game Over' announcement flickered in front of her vision for the hundredth time. Luckily, there were no pain sensors.

  But today was her day. Today she changed her destiny. For once, her mom actually decided to spend time with her kids. Willow managed to finagle her way out of lunch at the glass-floored restaurant due to her well-documented terror of heights. Finally, a few precious minutes to herself. It was an in-port day. Most passengers were off exploring Grand Turk, and the ship was practically empty. It was the perfect time.

  She'd followed Amelia Black last night, when she'd been with a bunch of her giddy, giggly bubble-headed girlfriends. They hadn't noticed a thing.

  No one noticed her now, either. She was easy to miss. Short, chunky, and plain. There was no reason to look. Most of the time, she hated that. But occasionally, it worked in her favor.

  No one was in the hall except for a few of the bots and a couple of cleaning ladies all the way at the end. A sani-bot glided silently past her. They weren’t like the service or companion bots who looked almost human. These were industrial and ugly, with their vacuum feet and their octoploid arms; three with nozzles for bleach, Windex, and all-purpose cleaner, other arms with pinchers for picking up trash, gripping reusable microfiber towels for wiping, and sponges for scouring.

  The sani-bot's flat-screen face bleeped a cheery, “Good mornin' to ye!” in a Scottish accent. Whoever programmed the thing had a sense of humor.

  At least the ship was free of the irritating holo ads everywhere like in the city, always scanning everyone’s retinals and vying for attention: “Willow, try a sample of Desire, our new pheromone-engineered formula guaranteed to make your guy blah, blah, blah for you.” Or, “Our new Allure has all the taste of real, soil-grown food with none of the calories, so you can finally lose those fifteen pounds, Willow!” Like calories were the reason no normal person could eat cheeseburgers anymore.

  Willow waited until the bot had entered a stateroom and shut the door before she turned back to her task. She took the wristband out of her pocket and passed it over the door lock sensor. The door itself was wood with a real brass knocker. The door opened and she slipped inside, her heart beating in her throat.

  Car engines, the shouting voices of dock workers, and screeching seagulls from the harbor filtered through the opened glass doors, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. The suite was huge. The outside wall was pure glass. And the massive veranda featured its own cabana and plunge pool. She couldn’t even imagine how much something like this cost per night. More than her mom made in a year, probably.

  “Welcome, Guest,” the room AI said in a soothing, sophisticated voice. If Willow wore her own wristband, the system would welcome her by name. At least, that was the way it worked in her stateroom. The AI didn’t have a recognition category for thieves, apparently. “I detect increased stress indicators. Your heart rate is significantly above recommended levels. May I suggest a relaxing massage? Would you like me to request a personal
masseuse?”

  Willow rolled her eyes. “Yeah, like a masseuse is gonna fix my problems.”

  “I’m sorry, Guest. I didn’t catch that.”

  “Never mind,” Willow said as she took in the room. The place was immaculate. No toiletries were strewn across the vanity like in her room, no swimsuits and towels thrown over chairs, no sandals shoved in corners. Dresses and suits hung neatly in the closet, the counters completely cleared.

  “Would you prefer—”

  “I’d prefer for you to shut up,” she hissed. “Disengage, or whatever.”

  The room fell silent. Willow turned her attention to the single object on the vanity, a glossy wooden box. She opened it.

  Jackpot. Several bracelets, rings, and necklaces bristling with jewels and diamonds. All real. Each one probably as expensive as Willow's house. They didn't even put the jewels in the safe. Why would they need to? Who would dare to take anything from them?

  Amelia's diamond-encrusted charm bracelet was nestled between a pearl necklace and a garnet ring, the stone as large as her knuckle. Every second ticking by increased the danger, but she couldn't bring herself to leave yet.

  She imagined herself belonging here, living this life, wearing the glamorous dresses and the fine jewelry. She'd never have to stay up until one a.m. studying for a test while her exhausted eyes slid shut after four hours of yanking weeds in the hot sun. She'd never have to share a single cramped bathroom with four other people, the water already freezing by the time she got to the shower. She’d never have to eat limp vegetables and disgusting lab-grown meat again.

  She clasped the bracelet around her wrist. It was heavy, cool, and smooth against her skin. It glinted and glittered in the light.

  “I'm pretty sure my sister's going to want that.”

  Willow spun around, fear clenching her gut. She hadn't heard him come in.