Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen — The Book on the Table
Jenny picked up her novel from the coffee table—the same spot where it had landed hours earlier when the hem first crept up and refused to come back down. Raise the Titanic! by Clive Cussler. The cover was worn soft at the edges, the spine creased from countless readings, and a faint coffee ring stained the bottom corner like a badge of honor. The white cover featured a dramatic image of the Titanic’s stern sticking up at a forty-five-degree angle, the smokestacks even puffing smoke as the ship appeared to sink beneath the waves.
She turned it over in her hands, her thumb brushing the familiar embossed title, then let out a long, quiet sigh. Her bare midriff rose and fell with the breath, catching the late-afternoon light slanting through the windows in warm gold bars.
She looked over at Rachel, who was still sprawled beside her on the couch, legs tucked under her, phone resting face-down on her thigh. “I don’t know if I can read this again without thinking back to this morning,” Jenny said softly. “I was right here. Reading this. When it happened.”
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