An anguished scream pierced the stillness. "Oh please, no. Dan? Dan? Not my Dan."
A plump, middle aged woman ran to the boy's body. She stood, stared and then wailed. No one would sleep on this boat now. Sounds of slamming doors from below tried to break through the grief, and two men came on to the deck; one young, shaven headed and white, the other an old, wise looking West Indian.
"Mrs. Carver? What is it?" the younger one said, and then looked at her feet. t was Dan Carver, lying with a single stab wound to his chest, a knife by his body and hardened blood decorating the floor. He and Sheila Carver had come on this mini-cruise, according to Mrs. Carver, to recover from the sudden death of her husband. Dan had been seventeen, at the cusp of adulthood. Stephen hadn't liked him much; Dan had been too knowing and cocky; but there was no reason, he thought, why someone would want to stab Dan. Stephen put his hand on Sheila Carver's shoulder and said gently,
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