“Tell Grant Whitmore his wife is here,” I said.

The crew member hesitated.

Then, the door to the main cabin opened.

Grant stood in the doorway, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

He looked down at me from the deck.

“You’re too late, Vivian,” he shouted over the roar of the engines.

“The board is already inside.”

“I have the ledger, Grant!” I yelled back.

He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“The transfer is already registered with the county.”

He turned to the crew member.

“Cast off the lines.”

The thick ropes fell into the water with a heavy splash.

The yacht began to drift away from the dock.

I looked at the widening gap of dark, freezing water between the boat and the wooden planks.

“Vivian, don’t,” Diane said, reaching for my arm.

But I didn’t listen.

I took three running steps and leaped across the open water.

My hands gripped the cold metal railing of the yacht’s deck.

My feet dangled over the dark harbor.

“Vivian!” Diane screamed from the dock.

I hauled myself over the railing, tumbling onto the wet deck.