I went back down the stairs and walked back to my car to see if there was anything inside that I could use to break in. Last I had seen my penknife, Blake Willis had it in a plastic evidence bag. I had never gotten it back. I had nothing. Not even a credit card to slide down the doorjamb. Not to mention, this was hardly going to be some flimsy lock, and who even knew if there might be an alarm system if I got in?

I felt my way through the seat cushions, hoping to find a bobby pin or fingernail file, all the while knowing it was hopeless because I wasn’t exactly the kind of girl who used bobby pins or filed her fingernails. I was more the quick brush and ponytail kind of girl, and I had noticed myself gnawing on my nails more than once since trying to quit smoking.

I popped the trunk. Maybe the tire iron would be helpful. If I were able to pry the door open, it would leave a statement, that was for sure. But sometimes statements had to be made. Especially statements like, I found you, Luna, you crazy bitch, and now you’re going to pay.

I had to slide out of the way as a catering truck backed past me, all the way to the dock, beeping obnoxiously—a sound that pealed through the serene air like a knife through fabric.

“Jeez, watch where you’re going!” I shouted at their closed windows. The two guys inside didn’t even notice that I existed. Satisfied with their entry, they parked the truck and both hopped out, throwing open the back doors and pulling out a ramp.

I pawed through my trunk, looking for the tire iron. Once I found it, I knew it wouldn’t work. Not unless I wanted to just bust my way through the door, The Shining–style. Maybe not the subtlest entry, even for me.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I slammed the trunk and leaned against the back of my car. I’d found one thing in the backseat that was useful. I pulled out a cigarette and the lighter that had been tucked into the cigarette packet and lit up, idly watching the Ambrosia Catering guys do their work.

If Chris arrived and I was smoking, he would have a hissy fit. But I would actually kind of welcome a hissy fit if it ended with an idea of how I was going to get into that yacht.

The caterers were continuing to come and go, each dipping into the back of the truck and emerging with an armload of boxes. They dutifully carried them down the dock, all the way to . . .

I bolted upright, dropping my cigarette. I barely glanced at it as it fell.