But Bentz could only think of Olivia and what she was going through. He felt impotent and weak. All his training, all his years working as a cop, and he couldn’t save her.

His hands curled over the railing. Hang in there, he thought. Oh, Livvie, hang in there.

With each sound from above, a footstep, a chair being scraped against the decking, a rattle of chains, Olivia jumped. “Focus, Olivia,” she told herself. “Focus.”

But things had changed, something with the engines…a different noise…Then she saw it. Water seeping across the floor, soaking the pages of the album…still just a little but…“Please, please…no.” Spit rose in her mouth as she thought of drowning.

Where was it coming from? Could she stop it? Plug the leak? Oh, God, where was the source? In a frenzy, she spun around, staring at every inch of the flooring, but saw no gaping hole in the hull, no split in the seams of the vessel. There was nothing she could do to stop the inevitable. Whatever the psycho had planned was already happening. Olivia had no choice but to hope beyond hope her plan would thwart the killer’s deadly intentions. She just had to stay the course.

Setting her jaw, she yanked the last pages from the album and dragged each, along with the leather bindings, into the cage with her, where she pulled the plastic from each thick cardboard page. Then, with bloody pictures of Bentz and his family falling onto the wet floor, she rolled one piece of cardboard into a small bat, leaned far through the iron bars again and started whacking at the camera. It took several swipes in midair before she actually connected.

Bam!

The camera didn’t budge.

“Damn it!”

Again!

Nothing.

The camera remained unscathed. Standing. The red light a small malicious and mocking eye staring at her, recording her futile movements. “You son of a bitch,” she said and took another swipe.

Another hit.

Still the camera stood.

“Bastard!”

Now, there was more water. Sloshing over the floor, wet and cold under her feet. She swallowed hard. How long for a boat of this size to sink?

An hour?

Two?

Or less?

She took in a long, calming breath.

Concentrated.

Gave the camera another shot.

Whack! A solid blow, but the camera barely shimmied. Maybe she was going at this all wrong…she eyed the tripod and took stock. Come on Olivia, you can do better than this. Hurry up! You’re running out of time.

The legs of the tripod were bolted into the floor, yes, but they telescoped and, she thought, might be weak at the joints.

Only one way to tell.