She wonders if sharks actually circle the waters like vultures over carrion, but as sopping red offal stews in the water behind her, she can already see them spinning in her mind, waiting to swallow her up in a whirlpool of teeth.

The stern of the Sunseeker drops off directly behind her. The saltwater laps at her heels.

Her husband descends the stairs, the Colt Python still honed on her. He covers the bleeding hole in his cheek with his free hand.

“Nothing personal,” he says. “I don’t tolerate thieves.”

She watches for it: the twitch in his lips as he pulls back the hammer.

She seizes his collar, and drags him down with her.

The ocean, and the membrane of fresh chum sitting on top, crashes around them.

She forces her eyes open.

The gun floats between them.

A white muzzle bounds toward her, swallowing her vision, jagged teeth reaching for her.

She strikes the heel of her hand against the shark’s nose.

It startles, convulses, snaps to another direction.

She thrusts her other arm out. Her fingers scrape the grip of the gun, but so do his. Red streaks from the wound in his face. White eyes bulge out at her.

His body is jerked away, suddenly, downward.

She swims through more blood than water now.

Something rough grazes her waist.

She pushes water behind her in a few desperate strokes, and scrambles back onto the stern of the Sunseeker.

“Nothing personal,” the widow spits into the water.