We docked in Cozumel the next morning. The water was so turquoise it didn’t look real.
Vanessa came to my suite at nine. She was alone, in sunglasses and a baseball cap, without makeup. When she took off the sunglasses, her eyes were swollen from crying.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
I stepped aside.
She walked to the window and stood there looking at the white beaches and the palm trees.
“I called Kelsey Morrow,” she said.
I stared at her. “You did?”
“I found her on Facebook last night. I messaged her at one in the morning. She called me back at six. She cried, Millie. On the phone. She said she’d been trying to warn people about Brandon for three years and nobody would listen.” Vanessa’s voice shook. “He told her the same stuff he told me. That his parents lived in Arizona. That he had investors. That he wanted to marry her.”
“Oh, Vanessa.”
“She said there were others. A woman in Fort Collins. Another one in Boulder. Kelsey’s talked to both of them. They’re thinking of going to the Arapahoe County district attorney together.”
She sat down on the couch and put her head in her hands.
“I was going to marry him,” she said. “Last night, in front of everybody, with a cake.”
I sat down next to her. “You didn’t, though.”
“Because of you.” She looked up at me. “After everything I did. After that stupid Instagram post. After calling you jealous and saying you were alone in your stupid condo.” She started crying again. “You found out the truth, and you told me anyway, even though I was horrible to you.”
“You’re my sister,” I said.
“I’m not even your real sister. You heard Dad.”
“Vanessa,” I said, “I was there the day Mom brought you home from the hospital. I was nine. I held you on the couch with Dad’s hand under your head because I was scared I’d drop you. I taught you to tie your shoes. I helped you with algebra.” My throat tightened. “Don’t ever tell me you’re not my real sister.”
She threw her arms around me and sobbed into my shoulder like she used to when she was little and had a nightmare.
When she finally pulled back, she wiped her face with her sleeve.
“Brandon’s been using my credit card,” she said quietly. “On the ship. He charged the tuxedo, a bunch of drinks, a $340 bracelet from the jewelry shop on deck six for his mother. Except he doesn’t have a mother in Arizona. Kelsey says his mom lives in Pueblo and he hasn’t talked to her in years.”
“How much is on your onboard account?”
“Almost twelve hundred dollars.” She laughed miserably. “In three days.”
“Okay,” I said. “Here’s what we do. First, you go to guest services and remove him as an authorized user on your account. Then you call your credit card company and report the charges you didn’t authorize. Then, when we get back to Denver, you change the locks on your apartment.”
“He lives there.”
“Is his name on the lease?”
She thought about it. “No. Just mine.”
“Then he’s your guest,” I said. “And guests can be asked to leave.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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