On A Family Cruise, My Son Was Laughing. My Daughter-In-Law Was Taking Photos. The Waitress Came Close And Slipped Me A Note Under The Table. It Said: Call For Help. I Stayed Calm. I Tucked The Note And Nodded. Twenty Minutes Later, They Were Tight-Lipped In FRONT OF THE CREW.

Back in my room, I double-checked the deadbolt, then sat down at the desk. I opened my notebook again and kept writing. I drew a timeline, labeled every meal, every drink.

When I first started feeling symptoms, when the waitress first looked at me like she knew something I didn’t. I didn’t write in full sentences anymore—just fragments. Words like minty, heavy, sweet, but wrong, eyes, wrist, deoxin, spritzer.

I rested for a few hours, or tried to. I lay on top of the bed, fully dressed, heart pacing, ears tuned to every sound in the hallway. At 11:30, I put on a coat, slipped the note in my pocket, and left without a sound.

The hallway was quiet, but the ship creaked and sighed with motion. I walked slowly, not rushing. When I reached room 212, I knocked twice, paused, then once more.

The door cracked open. Inside it was dim. The only light came from a small desk lamp.

The person who opened the door was the waitress. Her name tag said Maris. She didn’t speak at first, just nodded and motioned for me to sit.

Then she handed me a manila envelope. Inside were three photos. The first was of Lyanna leaning over the dining table, pouring tea from a small brown bottle into a cup.

The second was of Darren standing outside what looked like a pharmacy holding a prescription bag. The third was a shot of my cabin door with a timestamp and the faint outline of someone slipping something beneath it. Maris said she had a friend in security, that she had seen too much to stay quiet.

She wasn’t supposed to have access to these stills, but she believed I was in danger. She said she had already sent digital copies to someone she trusted, in case anything happened to either of us. I didn’t cry.

I didn’t shake. I just sat there and stared at the images—pieces of a truth I already suspected, now solid on glossy paper. I thanked her.

She pressed a small voice recorder into my hand and told me to keep it hidden. She said if I ever needed to record a conversation, it might be safer than trying to make a call. Then she walked me back to the hallway and disappeared into a service door without another word.

When I returned to my room, I felt strangely calm, like the storm had passed. But deep down, I knew better. The real storm was just beginning, and I needed to be ready.

The next day began with sun, calm waters, and the sound of clinking silverware from the breakfast deck below. From my window, it looked like any other beautiful morning, but my mind was somewhere else entirely. I didn’t touch the breakfast tray they delivered.

I made a note of the time it arrived and what was on it. Scrambled eggs, melon slices, a cross, and a small glass of orange juice. I sniffed everything, but tasted nothing.

Continue reading…