Ghost Ship

Valentino nodded. “I’ve never seen anything like it. A guy floats into a peaceful, medieval harbor, in the dead of night with a woman he’s most likely murdered. He gets challenged by a local priest who witnesses him floating toward the beach. He then gets shot at by two snipers. Before being attacked by two thugs, who he then kills, and then when confronted by my officers, he chooses to jump onto a ledge of jagged rocks in the sea.”

“Yeah, it’s bizarre.” Andre turned and bit his lower lip. “Do you mind?”

“What?”

He grinned. “If I take a look at your ghost ship?”

Chapter Eight

The ghost switched off the lights.

In the dark, he sat still and listened to the pandemonium outside continue. The downdraft of the search and rescue police helicopter’s rotary blades thumped in the distance. The Polizia on the cobbled streets outside barked orders, cordoned off the beach, and presumably brought out forensic teams to investigate the murder of the woman in the rowboat.

He waited until the commotion settled down.

When the immediate fear of getting caught subsided, boredom crept in. He waited some more, until the gray of predawn rose on the horizon, giving him enough light to see his environment clearly. His eyes swept the room, searching for clues that might reveal something from his past.

His gaze traced the outline of the living room. It was tidy, and barely lived in. There was a small TV with a set of rabbit ears style antennae on top that looked like it was straight out of the seventies. A small refrigerator that was switched off at the power point and the door was left open, suggesting the owner had left it to air, while he or she was away. His stomach rumbled and he felt disappointed to see that the owner had obviously left for the season.

He turned to the cupboard and found an array of canned food with no expiration dates visible. For a moment, he wondered whether they had been there since he was a child — or whenever it was that he’d spent time living in the coastal apartment. He rifled behind the cans, and found a small container of oats. They looked intact. Not that he really knew what oats looked like when they were past their used by date. Next to the oats were a couple cans of condensed milk. It wasn’t much in the way of taste, but his stomach assured him it would be better than nothing.

He added water to rehydrate the milk, poured some over the oats, and sat down at the boutique dining table to have breakfast, overlooking the ocean.

His lips turned upward into a grin. The vista was quite stunning as the first rays of sun danced on the surface of the sea, flickering like diamonds. Something about the sight caught his attention. The familiarity of it was as breathtaking as the landscape was beautiful. It began to put him at ease for the first time since he’d woken up on the rowboat without his memory.

He slowly ate his breakfast.

And a moment later, he heard the soft sound of a key being inserted into a lock, and turned without hesitation.

He turned to find somewhere to hide, but the only potential places were past the now opening door.

He tried to set his lips with a disarming smile.

Maybe there was still a chance he could talk his way out of this. He kept holding the bowl and spoon in front of him, in the hope that no one who was really dangerous, would break into someone’s house only to steal breakfast cereal.

An instant later, the door opened, and a beautiful woman walked through.

She was the one from the photograph he’d examined earlier. A Johns Hopkins University graduate. She had aged about fifteen or maybe even more years, but there was no mistaking it was the same person. Her skin was darkly tanned, giving her a decidedly Mediterranean and exotic appeal. She had blonde hair, brown eyes, and a kind face.

Her lips parted into a beaming smile and bewilderment. “Sam Reilly, what are you doing here?”

He opened his mouth to speak. His blue eyes filled with a mixture of fear, surprise, and relief.

She glanced at his crestfallen face, wrapped her arms around him and gave him a giant hug filled with familiarity. “I thought you were supposed to be in Holland by now?”

Chapter Nine

Sam Reilly felt a wave of relief.

Someone knew who he was. Technically, she was the second person he’d met who knew who he was, but she was the first who didn’t appear to want to kill him.

“You know who I am?” he asked.

“Yes, of course… I mean, I know who you were, why?” Her appearance twisted into puzzled concern. “What are you talking about?”

He raised the palms of his hands. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my memory.”

Her brown eyes locked with his, searching. Instead of doubt and distrust, her face was plastered with empathy and genuine concern. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Sam nodded. “Afraid so.”