“My friend knows where I am,” she blurts out. “I told him I took a job on a boat called The Medusa. I told him I’d call him right after. If anything happens to me, he’ll know where to send the police.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Was that your first time threatening someone?”
“I’d call it more of a warning.”
“Not much difference, when it comes down to it.”
She glances towards the dead body again. She mumbles something under her breath that I don’t manage to catch.
“What was that?” I press, inching closer to her.
“‘The maker of sad stories,’” she repeats, louder this time. “That’s what you told me you were, back on the beach.”
“You’re honest, but murder is okay?”
“Every man has his principles.”
“Then yours need some serious work,” she spits. “Who was the boy?”
I arch an eyebrow. “You’re
