Emy McGuire
On Sale Date: December 2, 2025
9781525831621
Trade Paperback
Graydon House
$18.99 USD
ABOUT THE BOOK:
The White Lotus meets Laura Dave’s The Last
Thing He Told Me in this debut domestic mystery about a luxury sailboat found
floating adrift in the ocean and the secrets of the missing family who set sail
aboard it weeks before.
"No One Aboard is a riveting, astonishing
debut, and Emy McGuire is an important new voice in fiction. I will read
anything she writes!"
—Sarah Pekkanen, #1 New York Times bestselling
author
At the start of summer, billionaire couple Francis and Lila Cameron set off on their private luxury sailboat to celebrate the high school graduation of their two beloved children.
Three weeks later, the Camerons have not been heard from, the captain hasn’t responded to radio calls, and the sailboat is found floating off the coast of Florida.
Empty.
Where are the Camerons? What happened on their trip? And what secrets does the beautiful boat hold?
Set over the course of their vacation and in
the aftermath of the sailboat’s discovery, No One Aboard asks who is more
dangerous to a family: a stormy ocean or each other?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
EMY MCGUIRE holds a bachelor’s degree in
theatre/creative writing from New College of Florida. She has toured nationally
in the Edgar Allan Poe Show, sailed from Rome to Antigua, and written
everything from ocean thrillers to pirate musicals. She lives in Colorado.
Social Links:
Author website: https://www.emymcguire.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/emy_mcguire/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/emy.mcguire/
TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@emymcguire?lang=en
Twitter: https://x.com/AuthorEmy
Buy Links:
Bookshop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/no-one-aboard-emy-mcguire/63fa7273f5ac1803
B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/no-one-aboard-emy-mcguire/1146730882
Chapter 1
Jerry Baugh
Jerry Baugh didn’t see the ship. He
didn’t notice the red warning on the screen. He was, in fact, cozied up in the
cockpit of his Dyer 29 lobster boat, feet propped between the rungs of the helm
and hands stacked on his belly.
Jerry’s day of deep-sea fishing had
been successful—a sailfish bill, broken at the hilt, currently stuck out of his
bomber jacket pocket—and he was thinking about whether the meat
should be marinated in lemon juice or
just plain old butter.
He was too distracted to detect the
boat in his path—white and gleaming, suspended between the black water of the
Atlantic and the starless, moonless sky with the same sinister beauty of an
iceberg.
Or a ghost.
When the boat alarm went off, Jerry
jolted in his seat, sending his Bass Pro Shops cap tumbling down his chest. A
single drop of sailfish blood had, at some point, fallen onto the face of his
watch, which read nine minutes after midnight.
He detangled his feet from the helm and
peered at the radar. He was heading two hundred and fifty-eight degrees toward
Hallandale Marina. The strange white sailboat blocked
his way.
Jerry switched off the autopilot and
eased the throttle to slow down, his heart thumping soundly in his chest. If
the alarm hadn’t sounded, he might have shipwrecked them both.
This sent a surge of anger through him.
Why hadn’t the captain of the sailboat moved out of his way? Sheila
2.0 wasn’t subtle, her engine making an ugly chewing noise not unlike a
trash compactor. They should have heard her coming.
Jerry allowed his boat to chug closer
before he killed the engine and processed what on the devil’s blue sea he was
looking at.
It was a sailboat, yes, but not like
the rust-laced ones that docked near Sheila 2.0 in the Hallandale
Marina.
This boat was mesmerizing.
It had twin aluminum masts, a
wood-finished deck, and sunbathing mattresses laid out on the chart house. The
body of the boat was a blinding white, smooth, curvaceous. The cap
rails were teak and coated with a
glittering crust of sea salt. No one had cleaned them in some time. Cursive
lettering on the side spelled out the boat’s name.
The Old Eileen
Jerry stared, a bit starstruck. Boats
like Sheila 2.0 were made to choke marine diesel oil and seawater until
they finally died twitching in a harbor like a waterlogged beetle on its back.
Boats like The Old Eileen were
made to be beautiful.
Jerry found his radio, hooked to his
waistband, and cleared
his throat before speaking into it.
“Eileen, Eileen, Eileen, this is
Sheila, Sheila, Sheila, over.”
He waited.
There was a time when Jerry was younger
(and a good bit stupider) that he wanted to buy a sailboat instead of a
motorboat. It was romantic, the idea of harnessing the wind to travel
the world. But in the end, it was those
same winds that terrified him. Wind could overpower him, seize control of the
boat and bend its course. Jerry would have had to accept that possibility. He
would have had to bare his throat to the mercy of the sea.
A mercy, he had come to understand,
that did not exist.
“Eileen, Eileen, Eileen!” Jerry
repeated into the radio.
They must be asleep. Jerry leaned
forward and sounded his horn—five short blasts to signal danger. He waited for
the radio to crackle to life, for a silver-spooned captain to sputter
apologies, or maybe for an underpaid
deckhand to rush up top and get the boat moving once more.
There was only the sound of the
luffing, useless sails, and the ever-shifting sea.
Jerry frowned and fiddled with the fish
bill in his pocket.
He should leave.
He fumbled in the dark to switch the
engine back on. He would report what he’d seen to the coast guard, get the
captain in trouble for being so reckless. He’d be back in Florida by dawn.
But Steve . . .
Jerry glanced at his dash where he had
taped up a photograph of himself with his younger brother. It was the last
picture taken of Steve before he died. Jerry closed his eyes for a moment. He
would have traded his boat, his bait, and everything he owned if someone had
stopped that night to help Steve.
“Well, shit.” Jerry rubbed at his
clavicle and swallowed hard. He would be in and out. Just to make sure all was
well.
Jerry moved across the deck, aware of
every sound his shuffling feet made. He rummaged through his fishing equipment,
eyes never leaving The Old Eileen. His calloused, practiced
hands fit right around the harpoon gun,
and he felt a measure of reassurance with a weapon in his grasp. He wasn’t
scared, he was too old for that, but there was nothing quite like a creaking,
old ship on the ocean at night to make a man into a boy again.
He tucked the harpoon gun under one arm
and set to work
lowering his tiny dinghy. He’d take one
moment to wake
whoever was on board, then get right
back on his boat. Good
deed done for the day. Maybe the
decade.
Jerry grunted as he climbed up the Eileen’s
porthole and over the rail. The deck was empty save for an orange life preserver
tied to the stern, the boat’s name written in black on the top and a slogan in
italics around the bottom.
Unwind Yachting
Co.
Safe to sail in
any gale!
With no one in sight, Jerry located the
companionway stairs that led down beneath the cockpit and gave one last scan of
the deck before going below.
Downstairs, the chart house was neat
and captainless, but the ship’s manifest was sitting in the center of the
table, open to the first page.
SHIP’S MANIFEST—THE OLD EILEEN
SKIPPER—Captain
Francis Ryan Cameron (55)
MATE—MJ Tuckett
(67)
CREW—Alejandro
Matamoros (54), Nicolás de la Vega (22)
PASSENGERS—Lila
Logan Cameron (54), Francis Rylan Cameron (17), Taliea Indigo Cameron (17)
Seven souls. Seven souls aboard The Old
Eileen, and not a single one had answered the radio, which lay next to the
manifest like an amputated limb. Jerry picked it up and felt an ice-cold
trickle of sweat on the back of his neck.
The cord had been cut.
Jerry’s knuckles went white against the
harpoon gun. Bad things happen at sea. Storms kill and brothers drown.
But the radio cord hadn’t been severed by the
ocean.
Jerry crept through the luxurious salon and to
a door that must lead to a cabin. He let his trigger hand slip down for a
moment so he could turn his radio to 16—the international maritime
emergency channel.
Just in case.
He opened the door to the cabin.
The master bedroom. King-size bed with an
indigo comforter and cream sheets. Velvet couch molded to fit the tight corner.
A woman’s lipstick lay open on one bedside table, rolling back and forth as the
boat rocked.
There was no one there. No sleeping captain,
no apologetic deckhands, no life whatsoever. Had they just . . . left?
Jerry checked the next room. This one held two
twin beds with identical navy bedspreads. One bed was unmade, with a variety of
books scattered at its foot. The bedclothes on the other were tucked in,
military-style.
A sketchbook was half hidden by the
pillowcase, open to an illustration of some kind of monster.
Jerry mopped his brow with a rag he kept in
his shirt pocket, not caring that it had dried sailfish blood caking the edges.
He should have motored on by and called the damn guard.
He forced himself to concentrate. He was doing
the right thing. The captain could be out cold and in need of help.
There were only a few more rooms.
But the last cabin was just as quiet.
Jerry peeked into the galley and the bilges,
running out of places to check.
The heads. Each of
the three cabins must have its own personal bathroom, and he hadn’t yet tried any
of them. Hands slick with sweat around the harpoon gun, Jerry retraced his
steps, checking first in the crew members’ head, then the master suite’s, then
back to the room with the twin beds and the drawing of the monster.
He nudged open the last bathroom door and
looked inside.
In the mirror, his own ref lection stared back
at him, interrupted only by a string of crimson words that had been written on
the glass.
A weight dropped anchor inside his stomach,
flooding Jerry with a kind of dread he had avoided for thirty years. The
harpoon gun slipped from his hands, and he reached for his radio, unable to
peel his gaze from the message on the mirror.
Save yOur Self
The Convey
OPINION: The Ocean Is Our Great Equalizer (why
the newest Atlantic disaster seems to
spell K-A-R-M-A for the one percent)
MIKE GRADY
The Camerons—a family of four headed by
television darling Lila Logan and business tycoon Francis Cameron—have been
reported missing after their multimillion-dollar sailing yacht turned up eighty
miles offshore without a single person onboard early in the morning of June 9.
Authorities and reporters have leaped into extensive action. The Atlantic has
already been tempestuous at the beginning of this year’s hurricane season.
Potential upcoming storms have given the search a dangerous time component in
an investigation reminiscent of the Titan, the infamous submersible that
imploded with five passengers aboard on its way to see the Titanic wreck. The
world had plenty to say about the Titan and its affluent victims, and this
latest oceanic mystery has the potential to play out the same. Francis and Lila
Cameron both had modest childhoods, but thanks to the entertainment industry,
the business world, and the good old American dream, they have skyrocketed into
the fraction of Americans who own multiple homes (Palm Beach villa, LA
bungalow, and a sleek Aspen chalet, if anyone’s wondering), not to mention the
multimillion-dollar sailing yacht that came up empty in the early hours of
yesterday morning. While I’m not necessarily here to say that the Atlantic
Ocean is doing a better job than God or taxes to rid us of the elite, I do want
to pose a big-picture question while authorities are sussing out the how did
this happen? and where did they go? Of it all. My question instead to you, dear
reader, is this: Why the Camerons?
Excerpted from No
One Aboard by Emy McGuire, Copyright © 2025 by Emy McGuire. Published by Graydon House.
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