Chapter 6 - Seventy-Nine Missed Calls
The storm hit the coast three days into their cruise, turning the turquoise waters of the western Caribbean into a churning, slate-gray washing machine.
I was sitting at my kitchen island, surrounded by blueprints for a new botanical conservatory I was designing for the city, when my phone started to buzz.
It didn't just ring; it vibrated with the frantic, rhythmic fury of a trapped insect.
I looked down at the screen.
Missed Call: Dad (1).
Then another.
Missed Call: Mom (2).
Then Vivien. Then Marcus.
I let it ring out. I poured myself a cup of chamomile tea, took a slow sip, and watched the little notification badge climb like a digital thermometer gone haywire.
By midnight, the counter hit seventy-nine missed calls.
My voicemail box was full. The notifications kept flashing across my laptop screen, syncing via iCloud from my phone—a relentless waterfall of panic, confusion, and growing terror.
I tapped the screen and listened to the first voicemail, left by my father at 4:15 p.m. ship time. His smooth, confident baritone was gone, replaced by a thin, rattling rasp.
“Audrey? Audrey, pick up the phone. There’s... there’s been some kind of administrative error at the bank. My corporate cards are being declined, and the purser’s office says our room folio has been flagged for non-payment. Call me immediately. This is not a joke.”
The second voicemail was from Marcus, recorded an hour later. The smooth, arrogant consultant tone was entirely fractured, replaced by a desperate, snarling edge.
“Audrey, what the hell did you and that old hag do? The title office just called my associate. They’re talking about title fraud and wire tampering. If you’re playing some kind of sick game with your father’s accounts, I swear to God—”
The third was from my mother. She wasn't yelling; she was crying—a high, thin, hysterical sound that echoed against the background noise of a shipboard hallway.
“Audrey, please. They won’t let us off the ship at the next port. Security is outside our stateroom. Vivien is having a panic attack, and Marcus is screaming at the manager. Please pick up. We’re your family.”
Family.
That word again. It had a different sound now—like glass cracking under a heavy boot.
I picked up my phone, unlocked the screen, and tapped the calendar icon.
Today was Friday. Their ship was currently anchored off the coast of Grand Cayman, denied refueling rights and quarantined at port pending a federal financial investigation.
I tapped my contact list, selected a pre-scheduled video conference link provided by Thomas’s office, and set the timer for exactly 8:00 p.m.
May you like
Then I sent a single text message to the group chat containing my mother, father, Vivien, and Marcus.
Audrey: Let’s talk.
