Shucking off my sweater, I grab my phone, laptop, and backpack and head for the bridge, the glass-enclosed room on the upper deck where the captain and officers manage the ship. I don’t want to accidentally run into Graeme, and while the bridge is usually open to passengers it isn’t exactly a hot spot of activity—not like the lounge. Threading through hallways and up three flights of stairs, I reach the door marked Bridge: Open and knock softly.

“Come in,” calls a deep voice.

I tentatively step inside. The room is narrow, with a massive control panel including the ship’s wheel lining one wall. Above the controls, a row of windows overlooks the bow. Full darkness has fallen, and I feel more than see the front of the ship dip and crest as we slice through the waves.

I grab the wall to steady myself. “Hi, I’m allowed in here, right?”

“Yes, of course. Welcome to the bridge,” says an older Ecuadoran gentleman with gray hair and a crisp white uniform. From his general air of command and the four gold stripes on his shoulder epaulets, I’m guessing he’s the captain. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, I don’t want to be a bother. I’m just looking for a quiet place to sit.”

He offers a kindly smile. “You’re no bother. Stay as long as you like.”

There are two other officers in the room, both younger than the captain. They give me nods of welcome. Soon the three men are deep in murmured conversation.

I shuffle over to a round table in the corner and sit on one of its four upholstered stools. Plunking my laptop and bag down, I open my phone. Time to figure out what I’m dealing with. I type Graeme’s name into the search bar of a Web browser. I googled him after our meeting with James two weeks ago, but I didn’t look beyond the first page of results. I’m sure there’s more out there.

To my surprise, a LinkedIn profile is one of the first results. Huh. This didn’t come up before. He must have either recently joined or changed the privacy settings on his account since the last time I checked. Gnawing on my lower lip, I tap on the link. Graeme’s profile pops up—it’s his all right, complete with the same photo he uses for his work email. Bingo. I scan his résumé.

He earned his bachelor’s in communications and marketing from the University of Michigan, but he attended Cornell for three years first. I frown. I’ve never heard of anyone transferring colleges their senior year. That’s just… weird. Did he fail out? Drop out?