Several seconds went by and neither moved. He shook his head back and forth at a rapid rate and tried to jolt himself back into reality. And then it occurred to him that whoever lurked there seemed too tall to be his wife.
“Is that you, Candice?” he said. “Because I’m still not interested. I love my wife.”
The figure shook its head but did not speak.
Candice was known in high school as the girl all the guys slept with, and she never took no for an answer. Not then, not now. Doug had resisted her for most of his senior year until one night when she just showed up on his doorstep. It was like she knew he’d been left all alone. With his parents gone and Trista out of town, Candice pushed her way into his house. Doug tried to say no, that he wasn’t interested, but all she did was laugh while she unfastened the belt on her jacket. When it was undone, she grabbed both sides and spread it all the way apart. Doug gasped. She was stark naked. She let the jacket drop to the floor and took her pointer finger and curled it back toward her, signaling him to come closer. That was how she always got her man. She had the best body of any girl at school—one that none of the boys could resist, and she knew it.
Since the first day of the cruise Candice had stalked him, showing up at the same excursions he was on with Trista and making obscene gestures whenever Trista wasn’t looking. Just the sight of her made Doug’s insides feel like they were on a continual roller coaster, and he just wanted to get off. On the second night, Candice had even cornered him in the hallway and pushed him up against one of the guest rooms. Doug had more than his fair share of drinks that night, but he’d managed to shove her off him before he stumbled down the hall to his room where Trista was waiting.
Doug stared at the figure, sure that it was Candice. He was frustrated that she just stood there in silence. What kind of game is she playing now…he thought to himself. “It is you, Candice, isn’t it?” he said.
The figure shook its head once more and moved toward him, and for the first time in years, Doug wished he was in control of all of his faculties. Whoever it was wore a long black robe with a mask on their face like they had just attended a masquerade ball with Marie Antoinette. It was large and covered their entire face, and he wasn’t certain whether a man or a woman was concealed behind it. He reached for the mask, but missed, and his hand swept across the open air.
“Who are you?” he said. “And what do you want?”
The masked person reached into their pocket and pulled out something long and shiny. Doug panicked and tried to lunge to the side, but instead he stumbled backward, and the knife plunged into his chest. Doug’s drink tipped from his hand and fell overboard into the icy depths of the water below. Before he had time to react, he felt another sharp pain and then another. He wanted to fight back, but he was helpless against it. The third jab cut deep, and as the life drained from his body and the blood spilled out and stained the deck around his feet, he managed to utter one simple word, “Why?”
The figure delivered one last blow to the center of his heart and then pulled Doug in close and whispered a single word into his ear, the last he’d ever hear: revenge. He pressed his hands into his chest and slumped over, trying to stand, but he knew it was too late. Less than a minute later, Doug Ward was dead.
*****
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and should be recognized as such.
*****
First edition September 2011
Copyright 2011 by Cheryl Bradshaw
Cover Design Copyright 2011 Reese Dante
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1466291206
ISBN-13: 978-1466291201
*****
For updates on Cheryl and her books:
Web: www.cherylbradshaw.com
Facebook: Cheryl Bradshaw Author Page
Twitter: @cherylbradshaw
*****
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means whatsoever (electronic, mechanical, or otherwise) without the prior written permission and consent of the author.