by Sarah Lotz
‘You want me to escort you back to your cabin?’ Ray asked.
‘It’s a suite,’ Celine snapped. ‘And no. Get out of my sight. Madeleine can do it.’
Ray nodded miserably and slunk away. Maddie knew very little about his personal life, but he’d mentioned something about having to pay child support to one of his exes. He may be a letch and a bullshitter, but she almost pitied him–he’d be lucky if he still had a job when they reached Miami. Celine’s bodyguards never lasted long.
‘Goddamned bloggers and undercover journalists,’ Celine griped, twirling a hand in the air to indicate they should get going. ‘Forty years I’ve been doing this. It’s my god-given gift…’
Maddie let Celine ramble on as she manoeuvred the wheelchair out via the stage door exit, blinking as her eyes were blasted by the pink and gold neon signage splayed all over the Promenade Dreamz deck. Passengers streamed towards the staircase for the second dinner sitting, and twenty-somethings in tight white shorts and ‘Status = Fun! Fun! Fun!’ T-shirts flitted around, rumbaing to the calypso music in the background and hawking plastic angel wings and devil horns for tonight’s Heaven ’n Hell–themed New Year’s Eve party. Maddie had no intention of going anywhere near the festivities. She planned on putting Celine to bed, ordering a grilled cheese sandwich from room service (her gut clenched at the thought of eating the mass-produced slop in the dining room and buffets), then heading up to the jogging track above the Lido Deck. She hadn’t yet found a gap to do her five miles today.
A trio of meaty men with fluorescent halos attached to their shaven heads made way for them as Maddie inched Celine into the elevator, which, as usual, smelled faintly of vomit. She pressed the button for the Verandah Deck with her elbow and wheeled Celine as far away from the damp patch on the carpet as she could get. A reggae rendition of ‘Rehab’ plinked as they were propelled upwards through the atrium, the glass sides gradually revealing the lobby and cocktail bars below.
‘Christ, I need a drink,’ Celine said.
‘Nearly there.’
Maddie dragged the wheelchair out of the elevator and headed in the direction of the VIP staterooms. A couple of giggly elderly women squeezed themselves against the corridor wall to allow them to pass. Maddie smiled brightly at them to make up for Celine’s surly ‘whatever’ response to their happy new year wishes, and waved at Althea, the deck’s cabin steward, who was exiting a neighbouring suite, a bunch of towels tucked under an arm.
‘Good evening, Mrs del Ray and Maddie!’ Althea called. ‘Do you need any help?’
Celine ignored her, but Althea’s smile didn’t falter. Maddie had no clue how Althea remained so cheerful while mopping up after arseholes like Celine. Most of the staff exuded an exhausting (obviously fake) joviality, but Maddie was certain Althea’s constant good mood wasn’t a front.
After swiping the room card several times until the lock finally flashed green, Maddie hefted the wheelchair into the narrow entrance area and pushed Celine towards the balcony and her collection of booze.
Celine jabbed a talon at the TV. ‘For Christ’s sake change the goddamned channel. How many times have I told that goddamned woman not to touch it?’
On-screen, Damien, the cruise director–an Australian with the fixed gaze of someone dangerously bipolar–was once again running through his tour of the ship. Maddie flicked past a Saturday Night Live parody of failed Republican nominee Mitch Reynard and a shopping channel, where two middle-aged women were gushing over a reversible jacket, before settling on footage of the run-up to the Times Square ball drop. Without being asked, she scooped ice into a glass and poured Celine a double J&B.
Celine snatched it out of her hand and took a gulp. ‘Christ, that’s better. You’re a good girl, Madeleine.’
Maddie rolled her eyes. ‘Did I just hear you correctly?’
‘Archie says you’re thinking of quitting.’
‘Celine, I’m always thinking of quitting. Maybe I wouldn’t if you stopped calling me a useless bitch.’
‘You know I don’t mean it.’ She gestured at the TV again. ‘I don’t need reminding that another year’s over. Put one of my films on.’
‘Which one?’
‘Pretty Woman.’
Maddie connected the hard drive and scrolled through the menu until she reached the Julia Roberts folder. She still couldn’t reconcile Celine’s hard-bitten outlook on life with her addiction to ’90s romcoms; Maddie had lost count of the number of scratchy motel chairs she’d sat in, waiting for her boss to fall asleep while When Harry Met Sally or French Kiss played out to their predictable conclusions.
Celine rattled the glass for a refill. ‘So. What are we gonna do about Ray?’
‘You’re the boss.’
‘You know he’s got a thing for you, Madeleine.’
‘Ray’s got a thing for everyone with a vagina. He’s a dickhead.’
Celine sighed. ‘I know. The cute ones always are. He’ll have to go. But that doesn’t solve your problem, does it?’
‘I’ve got a problem?’
‘You need a man in your life, Madeleine. It’s about time you put your past to rest.’
‘Not this again. What the hell am I going to do with a man?’
Celine cackled. ‘Well, if I have to tell you…’
‘You want to tell me how I’m supposed to maintain a relationship when I’m on the road with you nine months out of the year?’
‘Yeah, yeah, guilt-trip the old woman. You should go to the party tonight. See if you can snag yourself one of those cute crew members in their tight white pants. How long has it been? You know, since you last…’
‘None of your business.’
‘That’s not an answer. You want me to ask Archie what he–’
‘Enough with the personal stuff, Celine.’
‘Just saying, you deserve better outta life.’
‘Okay if I use your bathroom?’ If she took her time in there, with any luck Celine would pass out in front of the movie and she’d be able to slip away without too much of an ear-bashing.
‘Go right ahead.’
Maddie fled inside it and locked the door. It was three times the size of the one in her cabin, with a whirlpool bath and a pyramid of rolled white towels. She sat on the toilet lid and rubbed her temples. Thanks to that hipster guy, Celine would be in a funk for the next week at least. And no doubt the footage he’d taken would already be all over YouTube. Celine had only signed up for the cruise to get away from the heat after the Lillian Small debacle, but they’d both known it could backfire on them.
After it had all blown up, Maddie had never said ‘I told you so.’ She’d warned Celine not to go on Eric Kavanaugh’s Black Thursday Remembrance Show; the shock-jock was notorious for skewering psychics, scientologists, and spiritualists. Plus, Celine had been one of the much-maligned ‘Circle of Psychics’ who’d joined together to ‘use their combined energy’ to ascertain the apparently mysterious causes of the four plane crashes that had occurred back in 2012. Kavanaugh had gleefully ripped the psychics a new one when the NTSB released its findings and it transpired that the psychics had struck out on all counts. To be fair, Celine had been holding her own until the subject of the Florida crash had come up. Maddie still had no clue what had possessed her boss to insist that Lori Small and her son Bobby, two of the passengers aboard the aircraft that had plummeted into the Everglades, were alive. Even when Bobby and Lori’s DNA was discovered amongst the wreckage, Celine continued to proclaim that the mother and son were out there somewhere, wandering the streets of Miami, suffering from amnesia. She’d gone too far to back down. Tragically, Lori’s mother, Lillian Small, had spent all her savings hiring private detectives to follow this dubious lead, and now an enterprising lawyer had taken on her case and was gunning for Celine.
It wasn’t the first time Celine had got it wrong–but it was certainly the most high-profile of her blunders. But then… Maddie wasn’t being entirely fair, was she? Celine had occasionall
y been right, hadn’t she? There was tonight’s insulin revelation for a start (but it was possible Ray had passed on that nugget–she’d have to check). She knew that statistically Celine had to hit on some facts that weren’t fed to her by Maddie or whichever hapless ex-cop she’d hired to play the part of her bodyguard, but it still made her feel uneasy. And the guilt she usually managed to keep at bay was getting to her. Needling at her. It was a mistake getting to know the Friends. Maybe she should just quit. And do what? A shitty minimum-wage job was the best she could hope for with her record. She could always move back to the UK, slink back with her tail between her legs. Her sister would love that: I told you so, Maddie, I told you it would all end in tears.
‘You fallen in?’ Celine shouted.
‘Coming!’ Maddie called. So much for Celine passing out. She was about to get up, when the floor lurched, forcing her to grab on to the toilet roll holder. Her knees began juddering, a strong vibration hummed under her feet. The lights flickered, there was a long mechanical yawning sound, and then… silence.
Pulse thumping in her throat, Maddie unlocked the door and hurried into the suite. ‘Celine? I think there’s something wrong with the ship.’
Maddie was expecting Celine to say something along the lines of: ‘You’re goddamned right something’s wrong with the ship, it’s a shithole,’ but her head was slumped forward; her arms hung listlessly over the chair’s sides. The glass lay on the carpet where it must have slipped from her fingers.
On-screen, Richard Gere rolled down Hollywood Boulevard. Then the television blinked off.
‘Celine? Celine, are you okay?’
No answer.
Maddie crept forward and touched the crepey skin on Celine’s forearm. No response. She moved around to face her and sank to her knees. ‘Celine?’ Without lifting her head, Celine sucked in a breath, then began humming a jaunty, jazzy tune that reminded Maddie of Lizzie Bean, another (albeit less vocal) of Celine’s spirit guides. ‘Celine?’ It was becoming difficult to swallow. ‘Hey… Come on, Celine.’
Celine raised her head, a look of such raw terror in her eyes that Maddie yipped and fell back on her haunches. ‘Jesus!’
Maddie leapt to her feet, meaning to lunge for the phone, but then the lights went out again, and she stumbled as the ship listed to the left. She fought to control her breathing, had almost done so when a voice cut through the silence. ‘Ho-hum me old ducky,’ Archie cackled. ‘This is going to be fun.’
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Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
WELCOME
DEDICATION
HOW IT BEGINS
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
EPIGRAPH
PART ONE: CRASH Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
PART TWO: CONSPIRACY: JANUARY–FEBRUARY Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
PART THREE: SURVIVORS: JANUARY–FEBRUARY Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
PART FOUR: CONSPIRACY: FEBRUARY–MARCH Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
PART FIVE: SURVIVORS: MARCH Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
PART SIX: CONSPIRACY: MARCH–APRIL Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
PART SEVEN: SURVIVORS: APRIL Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
PART EIGHT: CONSPIRACY: APRIL–JUNE Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
PART NINE: SURVIVORS: MAY–JUNE Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
PART TEN: END GAMES Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
AFTERWORD TO THE FIRST EDITION
EDITOR’S NOTE: AFTERWORD TO THE SPECIAL ANNIVERSARY EDITION
LETTER TO SAM
CUSTOMER REVIEW
HOW IT ENDS
HOW IT BEGINS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE FOR SARAH LOTZ’S THE THREE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A PREVIEW OF DAY FOUR
NEWSLETTERS
COPYRIGHT
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Lotz
Excerpt from Day Four copyright © 2015 by Sarah Lotz
Cover design by Julianna Lee; art © Michael Turek/Gallery Stock
Cover copyright © 2015 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First ebook edition: April 2015
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ISBN 978-0-316-24292-9
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