Page 55 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)

GWEN

The water swallows Madison in an instant.

The coiled rope attaching her ankle to the cinderblock zips over the edge of the hull as the slack runs out.

I drop my gun and lunge for it, barely managing to grab hold of it.

It burns through my fingers, tearing the skin from my palm.

I tighten my grip, trying to stop it, but I can’t.

Not in time.

I have a split second to decide what to do: whether to let go or hold on.

If I let go, Madison dies.

If I hold on, I have a chance to save her, but it means leaving Sam.

Sam is stable.

The police are on their way.

I can’t let Madison go.

I need her to prove Sam’s innocence.

I’m out of time.

The rope pulls tight, and I’m yanked in after her.

The water is pure darkness. Like being swallowed by a black hole. It’s a frigid vise, clamping around my lungs. Instinct demands I let go and swim for the surface.

I ignore it. Even as I’m dragged deeper and deeper—into an abyss that is the absence of light. Of sound. Of heat.

Already, the pressure on my ears becomes painful. We’re being pulled down too fast. The weight of the concrete too much. I kick against the momentum of the cinderblock, but it’s impossible.

Despite my efforts, we’re both dragged down, down, down. Too much farther, and it will be too deep. I’ll lose the battle with my screaming lungs.

I grab the knife in my pocket.

Flick it open.

Feel for the rope.

Cut.

There’s an instant release.

One end of the rope continues into the depths. The other doesn’t. That must lead to Madison. I follow the length of it until my fingers brush something foreign. Something featherlight.

Hair.

Madison’s ponytail.

I reach for it, letting my fingers tangle and twist in it. Then, I pull tight.

She doesn’t resist, and I realize I may already be too late. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I begin to kick. With everything I have, I fight for the surface.

Madison’s limp in my arms. I drag her with me.

I follow the path of bubbles from my expiring lungs—the only way I know what direction is up.

I don’t know when the water ends, and air begins. It’s all too dark. I think this is what infinity must feel like. An endless struggle.

My lungs burn. Scream. I desperately plead with my body to hold on .

It reminds me of all those nights with Melvin. All those times he choked me during sex, and I would tell myself to hold on.

To not let go.

I would tell myself I could do this.

I would tell myself I was a survivor.

I refused to let him win then.

I will not let him win now.

Melvin trained me for this. He trained me to fight against the strain of my lungs. He trained me to see past the darkness clouding my vision. He trained me to hold my breath longer than I ever thought possible.

My hand breaks the surface. Then my head. I suck in a gasp of frozen air that burns against my lungs. I gag and reach for the edge of the boat. I haul Madison up next to me, rolling her onto her back so she faces the sky.

She sputters and coughs. Drags in a breath. Then another.

For a moment, all we can do is struggle to breathe. Panting and coughing.

Madison groans and twists in my arms. We face each other, treading water.

“You saved me,” she says, her voice raspy. She stares at me with an expression of awe and wonder. “I knew you would. I knew I wasn’t wrong about you—that you’re like me.”

I shake my head. “I’m nothing like you,” I tell her. “I’m not a monster.”

Her expression breaks. Pure disappointment and regret and sadness.

She leans toward me. Presses her cheek to mine. I feel her hand on my arm. I brace myself, worried she’s about to push me under.

Instead, she murmurs. “Yes, you are, Gina.”

Her hand closes around mine. Before I understand, before I even realize that I still hold the knife in that hand, she raises it between us. Tries to turn it against me. I’ve practiced enough self-defense that I evade her attack easily.

Too easily.

She doesn’t resist when I twist our hands so the knife’s no longer pointed in my direction. When I thrust the blade away from my face.

I realize too late that her intention isn’t to attack me. I’m not her target.

She is.

While I push away, she leans in. The knife cuts clean into her neck.

I freeze, shock washing through me.

“No,” I whisper. “Nonononononono,”

Blood, hot and thick and warm, spills over my hand. My wrist. Down my arm. It streams into the water. Darkness meeting darkness.

I flex my fingers, immediately dropping the knife. It falls into the water. It’s too late. The damage is done. A puncture wound to her neck, gaping wide.

“No!” I shout. I try to press my free hand against the wound, hoping to hold it closed. It’s no use. She cut too deep, severed too much. Her breathing gargles. She tries to speak, but it’s impossible. She begins to convulse.

“I’m here,” I tell her. I remember holding a different woman when she died. Sheryl Lansdowne had done terrible things. She’d killed her infant twins, among others. Still, she hadn’t deserved to die the way she did: tortured and left to bleed out on a cold warehouse floor.

Tears stream from Madison’s eyes, and I push her hair from her face, leaving streaks of watery red across her forehead and cheeks.

I have no idea if these are tears of rage or fear or regret.

All I know is that her death is a waste.

Another of Melvin’s victims, his reach spreading so far from the grave .

“I’m sorry, Maddie,” I whisper in her ear. It’s true. I’m sorry for the role I unwittingly played in bringing her to this moment. I’m sorry she saw something in me that wasn’t there. I’m sorry for her loneliness and desperation.

Slowly, the fight leaves her. Her limbs go still. Her fingers twitch, grasping at something she’ll never reach. “It’s okay,” I tell her. I realize that I’m crying too.

Her hand finds mine in the water. Her fingers wrap around my own. She reminds me of an infant grasping on to comfort out of blind instinct. And I’m just so, so sad for her. I’m sad for the lives she’s taken and for her own wasted life.

When she’s gone, I hold her a moment longer, but the water is frigid, and I’m still fully dressed, which makes it difficult to stay afloat. I’m holding on to the side of the boat, but my fingers are numb, and my grip falters.

My teeth chatter, my entire body shuddering against the cold. Everything around me is darkness, the sky bleeding into the water so that one becomes the other.

“Sam!” I cry out, trying to kick at the water so I can get high enough to look over the lip of the boat. I catch a glimpse of him. He’s rolled onto his side, one hand raised to his head. My heart leaps in my chest. He’s waking up, thank God.

A blue and red strobe flickers against the night, growing stronger as the police boat nears.

“Here!” I call. My voice comes out weak and raspy, easily swallowed by the roar of the police boat’s powerful engine.

It throttles down as it approaches, turning at the last minute so that it pulls up alongside us.

Waves from the wake set us in motion, ripping the lip of the gunwale from my fingers.

Suddenly, I’m going under. The frigid water claws at me, the dark depths of the lake trying to lay claim. Madison is dead weight, dragging me down as I fight to stay afloat. But my limbs are heavy and slow, and I slip below the surface.