Secrets of the Atlantic

It’s like something out of a dream—the grand staircases, the chandeliers sparkling like stars, the polished wood, the elegant people in evening gowns and tailored suits. For a moment, I imagine that I’m one of them, gliding across the deck with a purpose, a place to be. Instead, I’m here with Uncle Charles’s hand pressing into the small of my back. I can still feel his breath from last night heavy and sticky on my cheek, my neck, my shoulder. I can still feel his hands, his gross fat sweaty body next to mine. In me. I feel the bile rise in my throat. I suppress it. My parents would have never made him my guardian before they died if they had known.

His commanding voice interrupts my daydream about my all too real nightmare. “Don’t go running off,” he murmurs, his fingers lingering a little too long on my waist. I hate the way he touches me, the way his eyes follow me like I’m something he owns. My heart races, but I know better than to pull away. He’s all I have now, even though I know what he wants is wrong. But there’s no one else—no parents to protect me, no friends to run to.

I stare straight ahead, willing myself to be invisible as he chats up a young woman, leaning in too close, laughing too loud. She looks at me with pity, probably wondering what a girl like me— just 16–is doing with a man like him. It’s not like we’re wearing signs that say he’s my uncle.

Once he’s distracted, I slip away, practically running down the corridor until I’m far enough away to feel momentarily safe. The rush of freedom fills me, and I inhale deeply, pushing all thoughts of Uncle Charles and his wandering hands out of my mind. I’m on the most magnificent ship in the world. I won’t let him ruin this.

I turn a corner and see him—a boy carrying linens, with tousled dark hair and a smirk that stops me in my tracks. He catches my eye and holds it, a silent challenge in his gaze, and for a moment, I feel something stir in me that I don’t quite understand. He raises an eyebrow, as if daring me to follow him.

So I do.

He leads me down a series of narrow hallways, away from the opulence and the laughter, until we reach a plain, unmarked door. He opens it, and I step inside, my heart pounding with excitement and fear.

“Name’s Tom,” he says, closing the door behind us. His voice is rough around the edges, not like the polished tones of the men in first class. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, expertly removes one, perches it in his lips and lights it with a match, like he’s done this a million times. He probably has. He takes a drag and passes it to me—somehow instinctively knowing I will take it. I do.

“Vivian” I say as I suck in a deep pull from the cigarette, hold it to feel the nicotine coat my lungs and slowly exhale a plume of discarded smoke.

He smirks at me with a gleam in his eye that tells me this will be fun—maybe even dangerous.

“You look like you’re ready for something a little different.”

“What do you mean by that?” I whisper, my words barely steady.

He grins, pulling a small crate out from the shadows and opening it. Inside, wrapped in dark velvet, is a diamond necklace that catches the light in a way that makes it almost blinding. I gasp, reaching out to touch it, but he pulls it back, watching me with a knowing smile.

“People bring all kinds of things on board,” he says, his voice low. “Things they don’t want anyone else to see. Things that don’t belong to them.”

I swallow, glancing around as if someone might be watching us. “Are…are you saying this was stolen?”

He nods, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “People use ships like this to hide all kinds of secrets. This is just the start. They’re smuggling them—to sell.”

The next morning, I’m up early, untangling myself and slipping away from Uncle Charles before he even stirs. The thought of him lingers heavy in my mind. I feel dirty. I push it aside and exit into the corridor, my heart racing as I decide to look for Tom, eager to see what he’ll show me next.

I find him in a quiet corner on the upper deck, where no one’s watching. He’s leaning against the railing, watching the water, smoking a cigarette, his eyes distant and thoughtful. When he sees me, he straightens, his grin making my stomach flutter.

“Morning, Viv,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat. “Did you sleep well?”

I shrug, and reach for his cigarette trying to hide the shiver that runs down my spine. I take a pull and release it slowly, the smoke mixing with the cool morning steam from my breath. I try not to think about the night before. It’s worse on nights when he’s been drinking, and last night he was exceptionally drunk. I decide not to answer. “Tell me more about the smugglers,” I suggest. “Do you know who is involved?”

Tom doesn’t press, just nods as if he understands that I changed the subject on purpose. He thinks for a moment, retrieves the cigarette from my hand, takes a quick pull, throws it into the sea and takes me by the hand like we’ve done this a thousand times. His touch is electric. Come on,” he says, leading me down another corridor. “I’ve got something to show you.”

We reach a hidden storage room, and he pries open a crate, revealing another box, full of jewelry— one piece—a ring with a huge emerald, gleaming darkly in the dim light. “All stolen,” he whispers, his voice a little darker. “The guy who brought it has it listed on the manifest as a family heirloom. But I read the newspapers. I know it was smuggled from a vault in London last month.”

I stare at the ring, feeling a thrill of fear and excitement. “How much is it worth?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, his gaze meeting mine. “People with money, power—they think the rules don’t apply to them. They steal this stuff just to see if they can. This whole compartment is from the smugglers.”

I look around and recognize a small steamer trunk. My uncle had brought it aboard. My breath catches in my throat. I nearly choke. I point at it. “open that one,” I whisper.

Tom looks at me quizzically, but he walks toward the trunk, pulls out a pocket knife and begins to jimmy the lock. It takes him a few minutes, but he finally pries it open. It’s filled with all sorts of silver and gold treasures—and a jewelry box I recognize—my mother’s. I nearly vomit. I’m furious. I want to kill him. I’ve never felt like this.

“It’s my uncle’s” I whisper through gritted teeth. “He’s not getting away with this!”

As Tom closes the lid and hides the evidence of our inquiry, a plan begins to form in my mind, something daring and dangerous.

But inside, I know if we can gather proof—if we can expose all these people and their secrets—it will be huge. I’ll be remembered. I’ll be free. No one would ever look at me with pity again.

Tom and I spend every moment we can working together, slipping away to uncover more secrets. He brings me to a new part of the ship, showing me hidden compartments and crates full of stolen goods—pearls, watches, cash. It’s like we’re uncovering a whole underworld, a network of lies and deception hidden beneath the surface.

I start keeping a mental list of everything we find, every name I overhear. When we get to New York, I’ll turn it all over to the authorities. I’ll be the one to bring them all down, to expose their hypocrisy and greed.

The night times in the cabin with my uncle are the worst. But I endure them knowing it will soon end. I may never tell the world what he does to me. I’m too ashamed. But he will still go to prison for his thievery and smuggling. By the time he gets out, I will be grown up. I’m almost grown up now. Once we reach New York, he will never touch me again. Tonight, through his drunken stupor, he remarks that I’m spending less time with him. He corners me, his fingers digging into my arm. “Where have you been sneaking off to, you little trollop?”

I choke back my anger. I look up at him, forcing a smile. “Just exploring, Uncle. It’s a big ship.” He can’t know. He can’t find out we’re about to bring him down—to destroy him and his criminal enterprise. I don’t put it past him to kill me if he finds out and the sea is a big place to hide a body.

He narrows his eyes, his grip tightening. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. You’re just like your mother, always looking for trouble.”

I pull my arm away, my heart pounding. I want to scream, to tell him that he’s the one who’s been looking for trouble, that I know what he’s been doing with all his secrets and thievery and crimes and lies. But I stay silent, forcing myself to smile as he stumbles away, muttering to himself.

Tom and I meet on the deck as the sun sets, the sky a wash of pink and orange.

He smiles in a way that tells me something’s up.

I eye him curiously. “What’s happening right now?”

He pulls out a small, worn leather book—a ledger.

“What is that?”

He opens it and begins to point, excitedly—“It’s everything! It’s names, dates, and numbers, each one representing a piece of stolen jewelry, a smuggled treasure, a bribe— everything we need to expose them all. Every last one of them.”

My heart races. I’m afraid to ask. “Is my uncle’s name—-“ I start.

He nods. “From what I can see, this is his ledger! He’s in charge of the whole thing!” He hands it to me.

I hold the book in my hands, feeling its weight, its power. I imagine the headlines, the looks of shock and disbelief on the faces of the people who thought they were untouchable. I think of my pending freedom. I freeze.

Uncle Charles. In the hatchway leading out to our deck, holding a gun!

Tom sees the look on my face. He wheels around, but it’s too late. I hear a woman scream as the gun fires.

Tom falls to the deck. It takes a moment to realize the woman screaming is me. I stop.

Charles steps from the doorway and fires 3 more shots into Tom. He levels the gun at me. I know he has two shots left. One is all he’ll need.

“I knew it was a bad idea to take you in after I dealt with your parents,” he sneers. “Give me the book.”

“You killed my parents?” I ask in disbelief. I don’t know why I don’t believe him. It makes perfect sense, but I hesitate.

“They didn’t know when to leave well enough alone either. Now, give me the book.”

I realize in an instant the book is important. And I know why. It doesn’t just implicate him. It’s how he protects himself from the other smugglers. In my hand are the goods on him, but in his hands, it’s his weapon. It’s how he blackmails people. I glance toward Tom on the ground. He’s not moving. I think of all the nights my uncle has touched me. More. Of all the insults. My parents. Tom.

I am no longer myself. Rage overcomes me. My brain turns to fire as my soul turns to ice. I feel like I am outside of myself. “You took everything from me!” I scream as I throw the book with all of my might toward the choppy sea below. I lunge at him, he reaches to try to catch the ledger. I barrel into him forcing his gun to drop from his hand and clatter to the floor. He slips on a wet spot on the red painted deck. we tumble to the ground in a heap. I instinctively reach for the fallen gun and get to it before he does, I feel his hand grasp my ankle. I turn. I fire the two remaining shots. I only need one but either would have done.

Instinctively, I push his body overboard. The sea is a big place to hide a body. Tears stain my face as I do the same with Tom. It’s what he would have wanted. I see a nearby mop and bucket left by a deckhand. I use them to swab the rest of the blood from the deck and I throw both mop and pail overboard. Later tonight, I will go “looking for my uncle.” Tomorrow in New York, I will claim his luggage. I’m free.