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Three weeks ago. Two nautical miles east of Little Palm Cay, Turks & Caicos.

SHARKS. EVERYWHERE. SO much blood…

India Fanning released air from her buoyancy regulator, descending to the North Atlantic’s sandy bottom to a depth of twenty-two feet. With her back against a coral tower, she waved to her cousin, Turtle—nicknamed because he spent more time beneath the turquoise waters surrounding their island home than in their family gift shop where they were both due to start the evening shift in thirty minutes. A cruise ship was in port, which meant hundreds of rushed T-shirt buyers.

From her vantage, gazing up through crystal clear turquoise water, she clearly made out the feeding frenzy’s cause. The crew of a forty-foot fishing trawler had tossed bucket after bucket of chum over the hull. The blood served as a shark dinner bell, calling them in by the dozens. Black and gray-tip reefs, a lemon, even a couple bull. A hammerhead hung back at a cautious distance.

She considered herself an experienced diver. Not much rattled her. But this . . .

Forcing her breathing to slow she checked her dive computer’s air gauge. Thirteen minutes remained. From her current location, the surface was only a minute swim. Piece of cake—except for navigating through the undulating mass of black-eyed monsters snapping their jaws with enough force for the chilling sound to carry through the water.

What was wrong with those chumming assholes? The diver down flag bobbing on its blaze-orange buoy was visible a mere ten feet from Turtle’s boat.

Pulse racing, she waved again at her cousin who seemed oblivious to anything but his new toy. He’d been saving for months for an underwater metal detector and in the week since its arrival, they’d put in more dive time than they had in the last few years combined. The Turks and Caicos were famous for shipwrecks and Turtle was determined to do his part for their family tradition by making his fortune with gold doubloons and tourist dollars.

The more chum hit the water, the more frenzied the sharks grew. Foul-tempered, competing with much nipping and thrashing at assorted fish heads and tails and bony remains left after filleting. Smaller sharks had begun feeding on the scraps sinking to the sandy bottom.

Heart pounding, when a three-foot gray turned to her, India slammed his nose with the heel of her hand.

Thankfully, he got the hint and swerved right.

India followed the coral wall where it joined with another in the shape of a Y. The spot was a family favorite for not only its abundance of colorful coral and fish, but because of the unmistakable shape that made for an easily seen rendezvous point. As children, she and Turtle used to play treasure hunters in the nearly impossible to see coral cavern on the opposite side.

A particularly nasty barrel-chested bull shark rammed the hull of Turtle’s prized Sea Ray. The thump’s concussive force against the fiberglass hull of his twenty-six-foot baby was at least enough to have gotten her cousin’s attention—but not in a good way. Instead of descending from the threat, the notorious hardhead showed his fury with the shark and chumming bastards by wildly swinging his detector’s wand, clearing a path for him to reach the surface.

Turtle, no!

India’s chest ached from the effort of rapid-fire inhalations through her regulator. Air bubbles surrounded her, impeding her view. There was so much blood. What was happening?

A masculine cry of terror spiraled through the water like a bullet, piercing India’s soul.

She wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

Time froze.

Sunbeams sliced through the horror of Turtle’s shredded body parts—his left foot, right arm—sinking only to be snapped between scissoring jaws.

India threw-up into her regulator, then switched to her back-up.

By the time she’d composed herself enough to force her breathing to slow, her dive computer beeped a low air warning. With her current location a few good kicks from the surface, finding air wasn’t as big of a problem as forcing herself to actually move. Despite balmy water, her limbs felt frozen. Incapable of the slightest shift.

The beeping grew frantic.

Overhead, fewer sharks circled, but the fishing vessel remained. Someone aboard turned on music. Reggae celebrated her cousin’s death. Something besides blood was tossed overboard. Plop. Muted laughter sank to her depth along with an empty beer bottle—Kalik.

The boats name? Pearl. She couldn’t make out the port of origin. Though she didn’t recognize the trawler, if it was from one of the other islands, it shouldn’t be hard to find.

Surely the men had witnessed Turtle die. Why hadn’t they been on the radio? Calling for help? Realization dawned, but her panicked, grief-stricken mind had grown as sluggish as her body. Could she take this a step further and assume the men knew Turtle? Wanted him to die? Had they followed him from the marina? If so, they knew she was down here.

They weren’t fishermen, but monsters. What could Turtle have possibly done to deserve such a horrific end? Were they hanging around to ensure she also died?

Terror constricted her throat, cramping her already leaden limbs. Her heart pounded in tandem with the dive computer’s urgent warning.

If she didn’t act fast, she would die down here.

Her baby’s warm brown eyes and adorable grin flashed before her. Her mom and dad’s gentle strength and unconditional love. Her grandparents. Aunts and uncles. She didn’t want to die. There was still so much left to do. Raise Bridgette, her twelve-month-old daughter. Expand the family shop. Maybe college? Find love. Welcome more children into her beautiful world. Snapshots flipped through her head, faster and faster until the images were no longer recognizable beyond shock’s kaleidoscopic blur.

What little air remained in her tank tasted thin and stale.

Move! her mind screamed.

Her eyes could only focus on a scrap of Turtle’s tropical-print swim trunks.

Think of Bridgette! Moooove!

India wanted to. Planned to. Very soon. When the men and sharks left.

But when her lungs next reached for air . . .

There was none.