Shipped(15)

Walsh’s body practically vibrates as she jogs her feet under the table and lets out an ear-splitting squeal.

“Well, maybe,” I clarify. “I still have to clear it with my boss. He might say no, so don’t get too excited. But if he says yes, you have to promise you’ll actually debrief with me every night. I want your honest feedback, your ideas. You can’t just flit around sipping mai tais the whole time. I’ll need your help.”

“Scout’s honor.”

I slurp the watery remains of my drink. “Then it looks like the Evans sisters might be going on a cruise.”





5




The first thing you need to know about a Seaquest Adventures cruise: it’s not a cruise. Not in the way most people think of a cruise, anyway—gargantuan ship, thousands of passengers, onboard entertainment, and rushed day trips at busy ports.

Seaquest Adventures is different. Our ships are smaller. Much smaller. Our largest ship in the fleet—Intrepid—accommodates a whopping 158 guests. Discovery hosts 91. Due to their small size, our ships can go places larger cruises can only dream of—deep into the wilderness where no docks exist.

Where we’re going, we don’t need ports.

Which is why I’m perched sideways along the inflatable edge of a Zodiac, a small boat designed to transport passengers between the ship and the shore. My feet are firmly planted on the hard-bottomed rubber floor as we zoom away from San Cristóbal, the easternmost island of the Galápagos archipelago while our ship, Discovery, gleams like a red-and-white diamond on the horizon.

“First time on a Seaquest Adventure?” asks the man next to me in an unmistakable Russian accent. He looks to be in his midthirties. He has a thatch of receding brown hair, has a long nose, and is wearing Oakley sunglasses. His tan leg is already inches from mine since there’s about seven of us squished in a row along the side of the Zodiac, but he scoots closer anyway. I can feel the heat coming off him.

“Yeah, first time,” I say with a forced smile, edging toward Walsh, who’s sitting on my other side.

I still can’t believe James okayed her coming along. Then again, when I presented him with two pages of bullet-pointed arguments for how a real-time, outside perspective would be valuable to me in assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the Galápagos itinerary, I didn’t leave him much room to say no.

James had peered at me over those wire-rimmed glasses, skin wrinkling around his watery eyes, and offered an enigmatic smile that made my skin prickle. But then he’d nodded, and said, “Don’t make me regret approving this, Henley,” and dismissed me from his office.

What’s really making my insides twitch right now, apart from that questionable sandwich I ate on the plane? Graeme. He’s MIA.

He wasn’t at the hotel in Guayaquil last night with the rest of the cruise-goers.

He wasn’t on the plane to San Cristóbal this morning.

And he’s certainly not in this Zodiac with me, Walsh, and the other dozen guests about to embark the ship.

Maybe he missed one of his connecting flights and he’s stuck in an airport somewhere? Wishful thinking makes my nerves crackle and I clutch the aggressively orange lifejacket looped around my neck.

“It is my first cruise as well,” the man beside me says. “Where are you from?”

“Seattle. You?” I ask automatically.

“Russia, originally. Saransk. But for fourteen years I live in Austin, Texas. I’m Dr. Kozlov, but you can call me Nikolai.” He reaches out a hand.

Tucking my elbow to my side, I shake it. Trying to shake hands with someone sitting right beside you is super awkward. And with the Zodiac speeding through the bay and sea spray leaping up to ping my backpack, I’m reminded that there are no seat belts, or even seats, on this craft, and I could really use my hand back now.

“Henley Evans,” I say. His palm is sweaty, and he doesn’t let go. I tug my hand out of his grip and surreptitiously wipe my palm on my shorts.

“Henley… like the shirt?”

He had to bring that up. In addition to being named after a drummer, my parents also inadvertently named me after a type of casual cotton wear. Hallelujah. “Um, yeah.”

“Mmm. It is my favorite shirt, you know.” Tipping his sunglasses down his nose, he pumps his eyebrows once.

Walsh giggles beside me.

“Nik, you’re bein’ rude.” The older man sitting next to him pops his head forward. He’s probably in his sixties, and he has a round, friendly face, neatly trimmed white hair, and an accent as deep as south Texas. “I’m Dwight Johnson. Pleased to meet you.”

We exchange introductions.

“What kind of doctor are you?” Walsh asks Nikolai, leaning across me to shout above the roar of the engine. I dig my elbow into her rib cage in a clear sign of quit encouraging him. She elbows me back.

“Chiropractor.” His accent pulls the word into “Kai-rrro-prrrak-toor.”

“And a darn good one. I should know. I’ve been a patient of his for five years,” says Dwight.

Nikolai grins smugly. “And your sciatica has never been better.”

“Are you guys together?” asks Walsh, motioning between them.

The older man laughs, a deep-bellied guffaw. “Lord, no. He’s not my type. Too young.”