The Catch: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

Tagalog, but plenty of the body language, and references to the captain, who came up in the conversation more than once.
    From what she’d observed, overheard, and coaxed out of the cook during a brief conversation before they’d fully embarked, the ship had three officers and thirteen crew—a Russian captain, first and second mates and engineer from Poland, and the crew mostly from the Philippines with the exception of three who were from Egypt. She didn’t know how long the captain had been with the
Favorita
, but it was longer than the cook, who’d been with the ship for four years.
    The mechanic left, the cook went about his work, and Munroe returned to the berth in an attempt to sleep, a fight against memories that were sometimes easier to forget than others. She tossed fitfully and, when the effort seemed futile, pulled the packet from her vest pocket and brushed her finger against the back of the facedown photo. Held it there a long while, connected to Miles Bradford, lover, lifesaver, companion, and friend, in the only way she could be.
    She’d contacted him once in the past eleven months, had sent him a newspaper clipping of a burned-out yacht, the end of a monster who’d nearly destroyed both their lives in his purchase of female flesh, a newspaper clipping that would have told him that she’d succeeded and was alive. She’d kept up with him from a distance, through status updates and news on his company blog, breadcrumbs that he put there for her because he had to know she was in the shadows, lurking, watching, though lately the breadcrumbs had become fewer, and her temptation to return stronger.
    The separation hurt, but it was better than the death that inevitably followed her, destroying the ones she loved most. This way, maybe they’d both stay alive.
    M UNROE WOKE TO the sound of the door handle turning, a firm yank out of a sleep she’d had no recollection falling into: a yank thatpulled her out of bed and onto her feet ready to fend off an attack before the door had swung fully open.
    Victor stood in the doorway, one foot over the threshold, body frozen in place, muzzle of the rifle raised halfway in her direction, surprise etched onto his weatherworn face.
    Munroe raised her hands in a show of backing off. Said, “Bad dreams,” and stepped a retreat toward the bed. “I didn’t expect to sleep,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
    Victor lowered the weapon and moved past her, into the berth. He unsnapped, unzipped, and pulled off the tactical gear. Munroe stooped to scoop the fallen packet of pictures off the floor, reached for her vest, and with her head down and avoiding eye contact, stepped out, away from the shame of having given evidence of the emotional disequilibrium.
    Leo glowered when she arrived late. She turned her back to him and faced the water, allowed monotony to take from her what sleep could not. Time became routine and followed a rhythmic pattern that rose and fell with the motion of the sea and passed into the rotating of the watch.
    Leo gave up on her after her third turn at not even pretending to care, and, cautious to keep out of sight, she didn’t bother showing up again after that. They rounded the Horn of Africa and turned south along the Somali coast, presumably routing far off course as was standard procedure to evade pirate sightings, running dark at night to escape attracting attention with the lights.
    She spent daylight sleeping or talking with the crew, avoiding her bed, the berth, and the potential of being compromised around people she didn’t trust. When she did sleep, she did so on deck, among supplies or in hidden nooks that she’d discovered in her exploratory forays, and in the deep night and early morning she slipped down the access hatches and into the holds.
    There was something on this ship that made the crew nervous, caused huddled talk, shifting glances, and tension in their posture and interactions. With Leo’s flashlight she searched for