Authors: Leslie Parrish
leapt to do his bidding. Al the while, Olivia dangled from the roots of her
gripped hair, her back pressed against the massive body that reeked of
sweat and filth.
He dragged her to the rain barrel, a huge, old-fashioned one that stood as
tal as her waist. Bugs and mosquitoes rose from the murk, not liking to be
disturbed. A thin coat of slime and algae gleamed green against the brackish
water, and it stunk the way a standing pond did in high summer.
She couldn’t help it, instinct made her squirm, try to kick. He hissed
something in her hair, reminding her he’d rape her if she didn’t quit, but she
couldn’t make herself stop. Couldn’t submit to that dark, black pool that
looked like the opening to a cave that led straight to hel .
“Hold her!” he barked, and she felt smal er hands grab her arm.
She tried to yank away, more repulsed by
his
touch than she was by the
man’s. Because he had betrayed her. Utterly, completely betrayed her.
But there was no time to think of that, no time to again accuse him with her
eyes, or plead or beg or scream. Because that powerful hand was pushing
her head down . . . down . . . until she saw the reflection of her own eyes
shining back at her from the moonlit surface.
She panicked, sucked in a breath to scream. Thinking better of it, she
instead clamped her mouth shut to conserve the air.
Then she was in it.
Warm and thick, viscous, not like water, more like blood. Arching her
back, she tries to lift her head, her body instinctively striving to stay alive.
The grip remains merciless in her hair, and her head stays beneath the
surface, no matter how much she twists and splashes.
She holds her breath. Oh, how she holds it.
Unable to help it, she opens her terrified eyes, sees nothing but the black.
Bubbles escape her closed lips. She clenches her mouth tighter, wriggling,
jerking. Her lungs ache, her heart races, her blood surges through her
veins as if knowing it’s making its last delivery of oxygen to her starving
organs.
Her muscles clench, then cramp painfully. In the blackness before her
eyes, she suddenly sees her father’s face. Her mother’s. Her sister’s.
The boy’s.
Such anger. Such pain. Hot fire in her chest. The urge to open her mouth
and suck in her own destruction is strong, relentless.
She has heard drowning is a peaceful death.
That is a lie.
Her body rebels until her chest cavity feels on the verge of implosion.
Her mouth opens, her lungs clench, working independently of her mind,
groping, demanding what they need.
She tries, struggles to hold on to that last breath, which has long since
been robbed of its life-sustaining oxygen. Her cells begin to die. The
images in her mind fade. Her lips part, more bubbles as the dead air leaks
from her lungs.
At last, helpless against millions of years of evolution, she inhales.
Oh, God, the agony! Unlike anything she’s ever imagined.
Her heart continues to beat, though her mouth and lungs are filled with
filthy water. She hears her pulse in her head:
ker-thunk, ker-thunk, ker-thunk.
Slowing. Weak.
Kerrrr-thuuuunk. Kerrrrr—
Then nothing. Silence. The heartbeat is gone.
And soon, so is she.
Present day, Friday, 7:25 p.m.
“You
died
?”
Gabe didn’t think his body could get any more tense, but right now he felt
ready to snap in half. Shock rol ed through him, horror making his breath slow,
as hers had done while she relived the nightmare.
She hadn’t
just
died. She had been murdered. A lovely, innocent fifteen-
year-old girl, brutal y, ruthlessly, painful y murdered.
Throughout Olivia’s recitation, during which she had closed her eyes and
verbalized some awful picture playing in her mind, he’d found himself leaning
farther forward in his seat, his elbows gouged into his knees, his hands
clasped together. Shocked into silence, he had been aware of nothing but her
voice. He hadn’t even real y been thinking, just watching and listening as Olivia
uncovered her long-buried memories, giving them life, giving them power.
That power abused her. He could see it in the paleness of her face, the way
her mouth trembled and her nails dug into her own flesh as she tightened her
arms around her middle.
“Oh, yes,” she final y replied in a voice that quivered almost as much as her
lips did. She gazed at him with watery green eyes. “I was dead for a little over
two minutes.”
“Lord in heaven,” he muttered, stunned out of the immobility the horrifying
story had brought on him. He didn’t think about it, didn’t wonder what he was
doing or if he should do it. Instead, he found himself launching out of his seat,
then dropping to his knees in front of hers. Grabbing her icy-cold hands, he
wrapped them in his, watching shivers rack her slim body.
As much as he felt connected to her, given the personal, intimate secrets
she’d shared with him today, Gabe had no idea if she lived here alone or if
some boyfriend might come storming in at any moment. But he didn’t care.
She needed human connection. And he was there to give it to her.
Dropping her hands, he reached for her, wrapping his arms around her and
tugging her up. Then he slid into her chair, bringing her onto his lap. She didn’t
protest. Instead, she slid her arms around his neck, dropping her head onto
his shoulder and curling into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Hel , maybe it was. The specter of death made every human being long to
grab at life, didn’t it? To hold someone, touch a warm body, hear another’s
heartbeat, share a breath and acknowledge that, for one more moment,
whatever mysteries lay beyond this world had been held at bay.
But for her, they hadn’t. She’d crossed over that boundary, explored those
mysteries and was, to this day, haunted by them.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her soft hair, “so damn sorry, Olivia.” He
drew smal patterns on her back with the tips of his fingers, reminding her she
was connected, wanting to impress on her the fact that she was not alone, not
stil wandering in that darkness.
They stayed that way for several moments, during which he felt her rapid,
shal ow breaths slow against his neck. One of his hands was cupped over her
shoulder, his thumb brushing the pulse point in her neck, where he could feel
her frantic pulse slow.
She was okay, returning to normal. Whatever terrors tormented her, they had
been put back in Pandora’s box, at least for now.
Good. That’s what he’d wanted. But he realized something: The return of
normalcy also made him acknowledge how good she felt pressed against
him, curled on his lap. She was smal , though not tiny, fitting perfectly against
him, her soft curves melting against his harder angles.
It had been a long while since he’d been so close to a woman, and frankly
he didn’t remember it being quite this nice. He wasn’t sure anyone had ever
felt as good in his arms as Olivia did.
That realization brought al kinds of images to mind. Images of her turning
around to face him, leaving him free to tangle his hands in her hair and pul her
down for a warm, wet kiss. He liked kissing—it was one of his favorite things
to do—and he suspected Olivia’s mouth would taste just about perfect.
He was suddenly terribly aware of her soft breasts pressing against his
chest and the curve of her bottom against his thighs. The tender embrace was
feeling different. Her breaths were getting choppy again, and he suspected
her pulse was speeding up, too. As was his. Whatever this feeling was, it was
catching. It leapt between them for a few seconds, and he’d bet her thoughts
mirrored his own.
This is too soon. She’s a witness. She’s vulnerable right
now
.
Al of the above, and that meant it was time to let her go, even if it was the
last thing he wanted to do. He dropped his hand. She lifted her head. Their
eyes met, her expression searching and appreciative. She silently thanked
him, and he just as silently said it was okay. Then she rose to her feet and
moved to the couch, taking the spot where he’d been sitting.
Offering him a shaky smile, she final y broke the silence. “I didn’t stay dead,
of course.”
He managed a faint smile, too. “If you did, you’re the most solid ghost I’ve
ever seen.”
One brow went up in chal enge. “Have you seen many?”
“Not a one. You?”
She shook her head. “That’s my boss’s thing, not mine.” Her smile faded, as
if she’d suddenly remembered that
her thing
was what had brought him here.
And they stil hadn’t quite gotten to it. Yeah, he understood a lot more about
what had happened to her. But how it had changed her, what abilities did she
think the experience had given her? No clue.
“Listen, before we finish this, how about a drink?” she asked, getting up
before he’d even responded. “I could use a glass of wine. Are you off-duty,
Detective? Can I get you a beer?”
“My shift’s over; to be honest, I came here off the record. So, yeah, a beer
would be great, thanks. And please cal me Gabe.” She’d been curled up in
his lap five minutes ago, and if she’d stayed there another ten seconds, she
probably would have felt his body reacting to that. So, yeah, they oughta be on
a first-name basis.
She didn’t go far, just to a wet bar in a corner. He liked this den area; not
only did it have a big screen, the bar and a smal refrigerator, but it also had
none of that fril y, girly stuff that had marked the rest of the house he’d seen so
far. It was a room you could live in, not one you had to tiptoe through to get
somewhere else. He liked that the pil ows were big and squishy, the pictures
on the wal of sunny meadows, not plastic fruit. This room, he suspected, was
the one she real y lived in. Which made him wonder who lived in the rest of the
museum.
Opening the fridge, she retrieved a beer and a halfful bottle of white wine.
She poured herself a drink, then returned and handed him the beer. The tips
of their fingers met on the slick, cold glass, and she didn’t let go of the bottle
immediately. Such a slight touch, but he felt it way down deep. Every touch
seemed a little more important now, though he couldn’t say why. Maybe it was
because she’d opened up to him. Maybe it was because he’d held her.
Whatever the reason, he was more aware of her than he had been before.
Whether that was a good thing or a bad one, though, he just couldn’t say.
“Thank you,” he final y said.
She let go, turning away while he twisted the cap off the bottle and took a
deep sip. Once she’d sat down, smoothed her skirt and sipped her wine, she
nodded once, silently letting him know she was ready to continue whenever he
was. He’d done enough pushing for one day, however, and was content to let
her take the lead. He hoped they’d already gotten past the worst part but
honestly wasn’t entirely sure.
Though, real y, what could be worse than experiencing your own death?
“Okay, where were we?” she final y murmured.
“You were about to tel me how Jack saved you.”
She sucked in a breath, obviously surprised he’d figured that out.
It hadn’t been hard. “You sounded desperate to know what happened to him
earlier today, like you owed him your life. But when you just told me what
happened that night, it sounded like you had gone to your grave hating him.
So I suspect he’s the one who hauled you out of it.”
She nodded, cupping her fingers around her glass, staring into the pale
liquid. “Yes, he did. I remember taking a breath, inhaling that water. Then
blackness. Absolutely nothing.”
“No bright light or long tunnel?” he asked, not teasing, not one bit.
She shook her head. “Sorry. If there was, I don’t remember it. Not a thing.
The first memory I have after drowning is of being rol ed onto my side so I
could vomit up a bunch of water, then trying to remind my body how to breathe.
”
“He’d performed CPR?”
“Don’t ask me how an abused, terrified boy did it, but yes. He brought me
back to life.”
“Where was Col ier?”
Another sip, another long, introspective silence. “Gone. Jack said he’d left
to get the ransom money, tel ing Jack to bury me.”
He shook his head, having a hard time imagining it. “How long were you . . .
?”
“As I said, on reflection, I’m sure I was clinical y dead for two minutes, ten
seconds. I don’t know if my brain waves had actual y stopped when Col ier