The plan wasn’t great, admittedly, but good enough. Get her into the ocean, cut the oxygen, toss her personal items overboard and hightail it back to shore. Alone.
He had been plotting ever since her lottery win last year. They had been married for nine years, nine too long. And now he was going to get every penny.
Except the damn engine was flooded. He couldn’t make his getaway. The jig was up.
Worse part: she knew it too.
Even several feet below the surface the panic on her face was clear.
Damn the Caribbean and its crystal blue water.
The Weekday One Hundred 