Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

Too loud.

 I froze and waited. Brad did not come running.

I took a step and wood crunched under my foot. I stopped and examined the splintered wood and pieces of the locking mechanism spread across the floor, then placed my hand on the wall for balance and tiptoed through the rubble. The stitches in my foot pulled with every movement, and I bit my lip to smother the pain.

I poked my head out of the cabin. To my left, the companionway, navigation station, and salon were empty. In front of me, padded rails ran along the galley appliances and the back of the salon couch. I moved into the galley and braced my hands against both rails—using them as crutches—and limped forward on my swollen foot. I tiptoed to minimize the sound of my footfalls, but the stitches twitched, and my skin burned.

I stopped, halfway through the galley. I needed to arm myself. I opened a cabinet and removed a steak knife. It seemed small and impotent at the end of my thin arm. I replaced it and grabbed the butcher knife we had used to cut meat. I balanced the blade in my hand and the weight gave me a momentary sense of power, then my cheeks warmed, and I felt ridiculous. Could I use it to defend myself? Could I kill Brad?

At least having the knife was better than nothing—it gave me a chance.

The ocean lapped against the hull and the sound intensified my thirst. I glanced at the faucet over the sink, but I could not risk the noise I would make retrieving a glass and running the faucet. I shuffled past, without slowing.

I paused at the end of the galley and leaned around the corner. The stateroom door stood a few inches ajar. I listened. No sound. I stepped into the alcove and opened the cabinet containing the refrigerator, a quarter-sized unit, like the one I had kept in my college dorm.

I pulled the handle, and the seal popped. I opened the door, jiggling cans on the plastic rack inside. I held my breath and listened to the soft lapping of the sea against the hull. A plastic bottle of Perrier and two cans of Diet Coke sat on the shelves. I lifted the Perrier, careful not to shake the rack.

Behind me, something thumped on the deck in the stateroom.

He’s coming.

I moved out of the alcove and looked at the berth. Too far. I would never make it.

Another thump on the floor. Louder, closer.

I slipped between the salon couches and ducked under the dining table.

Brad exited the stateroom and stood in the alcove. I only saw him from the knees down, and his calve muscles rippled with spasms.

I squeezed the bottle in one hand and the knife in my other, remaining motionless on my hands and knees. Brad stood still, facing starboard. What was he doing?

I peeked between the couches.

Brad stared at the open refrigerator which I had forgotten to close. He cocked his head like a dog trying to solve a math problem.

“Glompf, nnngh, where are you?” he yelled, turning toward the companionway.

The tabletop concealed me from his view. For now.

What was he thinking?

He stepped aft then stopped. His drool dripped on the deck in front of me.

An itch tickled my parched throat, and I had to cough. I pushed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and tried to squeeze moisture out of it, but I had nothing left. I ground my teeth to suppress the urge and took shallow breaths.

Brad moved forward to the companionway and climbed the stairs. If he turned, he would spot me under the table. I watched him ascend the steps and disappear on deck.

I coughed. I had to move now.

I crawled out from under the table and slipped around the couch. I backed against the railing and hurried toward the starboard cabin. I kept my eyes riveted on the top of the companionway. Brad remained out of sight.

I turned to step into the cabin and stopped.

Beyond the companionway and over the navigation table, the severed satellite telephone cord dangled from the instrument panel where Brad had ripped the phone from the wall. The frayed ends of wires protruded out of their plastic sheath. If I found the phone and spliced the wires, maybe I could call Medevac Worldwide Rescue and they could triangulate our position.

Something thumped on deck near the helm.

I had to hide. I climbed into the engine compartment, set the bottle and knife at my feet, and pulled the cover closed behind me. The room plunged into darkness.

I groped for my bottle and guzzled the Perrier. The liquid revived me as it coursed through my veins. I moved away from the doorway and sat on the floor. I could no longer hear anything outside the compartment. I was a prisoner in a hole, on a boat surrounded by thousands of miles of ocean, with a madman hunting me.

If I stayed there, I would die.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

I sat in darkness with my eyes burning and my throat constricting. Despair boiled inside me, spreading from my heart through my chest until it consumed all of me. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and my chest heaved. My body spasmed. I pressed my hands over my mouth.

How did I end up on a boat?

After my childhood trauma, I had sworn I would never go near the water again. It happened twenty-one long years ago, but it felt like yesterday—the memory burned into my mind by scalding tragedy.

It had been a Saturday in July, warm and sunny, the kind of day New Englanders dreamed about all winter long. My father had woken me with a radiant smile.

“How about we spend the day together?” he asked.

“Really, Daddy? You don’t have to work?”

“I do, but I’d rather go swimming with you, Princess.”

I leapt out of bed, threw on a swimsuit, and an hour later, we arrived at the Roosevelt Center—a massive, Olympic-sized pool, with five diving boards and an