Page 59 of The House That Held Her

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I plant my feet against the grate, gripping Shannon tightly in my arms, and kick off with every bit of strength I have left. For one dizzying moment, we’re moving forward, carried by momentum through the churning water. Then, in a heartbeat, she’s ripped from my grasp.

Panic engulfs me. I fling my arms out, trying to grab onto anything—her clothes, her hair, some part of her—to keep us together. My momentum propels me forward without her until, in desperation, I brace a hand against the mossy tunnel ceiling. That sudden friction slams me onto my back, half of my face above the water, half below it. I gulp down more liquid than air, choking as my lungs scream for oxygen. A nasty burn clenches my throat. This is what drowning feels like. I force the thought away. Not now. I can’t let it happen now.

With my feet scrambling for traction along the tunnel’s slick bottom, I twist around until I make contact with her again. My fingers glide over her waist, then down to her arms—and there it is, cold, unyielding metal. She’s handcuffed to something. Probably the grate. My heart’s in free fall, but there’s no time to question it. The only hope we have is to get her free.

I tip my head up, trying to inhale, but I take in more water than air. I cough, vomiting the briny liquid. I try once more with my lips pressed tight, managing only a shallow, pitiful breath. It’ll have to be enough. I plunge below the surface, hands searching in the blackness until I find her cuffed wrist. Eyes squeezed shut, I position my palm against the back of her hand, line the other beneath her joint for leverage, and press down with all the strength I have left.

A sickening crack reverberates through the water, and for a split second, I pray Shannon will scream, because that means she’s alive. But there’s only silence. Terror knives through me. I maneuver the newly broken joint, forcing the cuff to slide up and over her hand.

I shoot back up, slamming against the tunnel ceiling. Once more I try to inhale, water stinging my throat, hacking and spitting. I’ve run out of time. No more illusions—this is it. I clamp Shannon to my side, kick off that cursed grate again, and feel us surge forward in the current. My single free arm claws at the water, but the storm’s runoff pushes us back. I’m exhausted, and we’re sinking.

My momentum ebbs. I bounce off the tunnel floor and realize I have no last-ditch burst of adrenaline left. No help is coming. The pipes are designed to keep debris out of the lake. Well, here we are, pinned into the grate just like debris. In the heavy darkness, a hollow resignation settles in me. Before I can stop myself, I check Shannon’s pulse. My fingertips graze the side of her neck. To my disbelief, there’s the faintest flutter. She’s alive.

A sick laugh bubbles in my chest, barely contained. The universe is mocking me. We came so close, and now there’s nowhere else to go. At least I tried. At least I wasn’t a coward this time.

Then, in that haze of complete hopelessness, something changes. Or rather, something rests. The roar of rain overhead softens, replaced by a damp hush that resonates through the grates. My mind latches onto that sudden silence. The rain—it’s finally stopped.