4. SinkScream
SINK OR SCREAM
Twelve Years Earlier
Three weeks. That was how long it took me to convince Isabella I should spend Labor Day weekend at Samantha Florrick’s Lake Forest house.
Five minutes. That was how quickly I regretted accepting the invitation.
I had been invited along as a novelty. I’m not really friends with Samantha or with her friends—the members of Albright Academy’s most popular clique.
But I’d decided, over a boring and antisocial summer spent with my hired babysitter, that junior year would be different from the first half of high school.
Isabella would refer to herself as my companion, but I’m unconvinced that term is any better than babysitter.
So, here I am, fifty miles north of Chicago, feeling even lonelier than I do in the Windy City.
The whispers stop around one a.m.
I wait another fifteen minutes, just in case, before crawling out of the lower bunk.
Samantha called the layout lame earlier.
Said her parents designed the guest room when she was much younger and they needed to accept that she and her siblings weren’t kids, excited about the novelty of camping indoors anymore.
I laughed with the other girls. I didn’t say what I was thinking—how nice it would be to have parents who built you bunk beds and siblings you lived with. I know my living arrangement is strange; I know I’m not supposed to draw attention to it.
I tiptoe across hardwood, open the door silently, then continue down the empty hallway. The lack of sound is eerie, more than peaceful, but I’ve always been comfortable in the quiet. Lots and lots of practice.
The kitchen is a mess, marble counters covered with evidence of the evening’s activities.
In a rare moment of rebellion, I swipe a half-empty bottle of vodka off the counter.
I only took a couple of sips earlier, stating I didn’t like the taste.
In reality, I don’t trust these girls enough to get drunk around them.
I slide the glass door open and step outside, eyes scanning the empty yard.
This house feels remote, but it isn’t really.
Hedges and other strategically placed landscaping shield the yard from the nearest neighbors, but I saw how tight the spacing was between houses during the drive.
Land at this location is too valuable not to maximize lots.
There’s a pool past the perfectly manicured grass. We lay out on the stone pavers, sunbathing, earlier. No one went in the water, which was a relief.
I can’t swim.
I learned perfect Italian and English. I practiced violin until the calluses on my fingertips became permanent. I perfected avoiding any spotlight.
But I never had a reason—or opportunity—to swim. There’s a beautiful pool in my father’s backyard that I’ve only admired from afar.
I take a seat on the pavers, right beside the pool so I can lower my feet into the water. I swish my toes around, then swig some vodka. The first swallow burns my mouth, my throat, and finally my stomach. Heat crawls across my skin, countering the coolness of the water.
I tip my head back, staring at the sky. That overhead view has always soothed me for some reason.
The sky’s enormity makes my existence seem safer, not insignificant.
Like I don’t matter—in a good way. We exist on a floating rock and could die at any moment.
Morbid maybe, but realistic. By comparison, nothing is that important.
My aimlessness seems pedestrian in the larger context of the universe.
The night air is heavy with humidity, saturating my pajamas and frizzing my hair. I usually braid it before bed, but didn’t bother tonight.
The longer I sit, sipping and stargazing, the more I wish I could dunk more than my feet. Calves up, my skin feels sticky and hot—like I have a fever. My eyes focus on the stairs that submerge into the shallow end. Perfect. I stand, intent on my destination.
I make it two steps. Maybe three. Then gravity releases me from its grasp. I marvel at my own irresponsibility as I stumble, then fall, expecting the coming collision to hurt.
It doesn’t.
It’s wonderful. Cool and dark and muffled. An oasis no one else has discovered. A perfect, peaceful escape.
Until it begins to burn. Not the water—me.
It starts in my chest, a pressure I can’t shake.
Then spreads through my veins with the ferocity of liquid fire.
I struggle, a strong burst of adrenaline chasing some of the pain away.
Fight the foreign sensation. Fight hard, forgetting the former fog as urgency surges through me.
I’m drowning. Suffocating. This is what dying feels like.
By sheer determination, I break through the surface. The first inhale is a high I’ve never experienced. Complete bliss.
Absurdly, my first thought is, I should stop eating fish. Is that unnatural horror what they experience when they’re pulled from the sea?
Exhaustion wins for a few seconds, and then water closes over my head again.
I kick harder, arms flailing, trying to paddle to the shallower end by sheer force of will. I’m not far from it. I was sitting by the center of the pool, only a little past where the bottom slopes down.
I should scream for help the second I surface again.
My pride smarts at the prospect. I’m Carina Caruso. I’ve been fighting to survive since before I was born. A deep puddle won’t be my undoing. I won’t spend the remainder of high school being mocked for my idiocy and inability to float.
I manage another breath. Use it as fuel to continue pushing. Right as my left foot brushes something solid, an arm wraps around my waist. Through no effort of my own, I’m moving, pulled against the unmistakable heat and hardness of another body.
Now, I scream.
Water isn’t a rational fear, but I’ve been warned about abduction my entire life. Been reminded why I should panic in that scenario almost as often.
A hand claps over my open mouth, silencing me, and I struggle harder.
I can’t recall ever being this tired.
I can’t recall ever being this scared.
All of Isabella’s ridiculous arguments for why I shouldn’t have come this weekend? Suddenly not sounding ridiculous at all. She’ll think she failed me. My father—what will Salvatore do to her? He might be relieved to be rid of me, but he can’t stand incompetence.
I widen my mouth as much as possible, then bite the palm covering it as hard as I can.
The taste of copper fills my mouth as a stream of strange, angry-sounding syllables fills my ears.
I can hear. My head is fully above water. I can stand, too, the tiled bottom firm beneath my feet.
Or I thought I could stand. When arms abruptly release me, I nearly collapse. I half stumble, half sag onto the nearest edge, spinning to face my attacker as quickly as possible.
To do what? I have no idea. My muscles feel cast in lead, and I can’t see anything through the mess of wet hair flopped over my face. I swipe it away with both hands, back to the wall, aiming my most lethal glare at the pool’s other occupant.
He let me go—why? Because it’s obvious I’m an easy target? I never truly believed anyone would come after a dead girl, and I’m about to pay a high price for ignoring what I mistook as paranoia.
The man isn’t looking at me. He’s inspecting his palm with a frown on his face.
His hand is big. So is the rest of him. Tall and broad and muscular.
A more-than-worthy opponent when I’m sober and energized.
Capable yet younger than I expected. Much, much younger.
Close to my age. It shouldn’t surprise me.
My brothers went from children to men overnight.
The lifespan of a made man is much shorter than an average one.
He glances up suddenly. His eyes meeting mine makes it difficult for me to breathe again, like I’m back underwater. He says something, but I don’t understand a harsh word of it. Russian maybe?
I could respond in Italian to confuse him back, but I’m not sure I should. He’s likely going off a general description of me. Maybe I can convince him I’m not who he thinks I am.
Before I can decide what to say, he’s moving, cutting through the water that almost killed me like it’s effortless.
He grabs the bottle of vodka from the spot where I left it, splashing some on his hand before swallowing a large sip of the rest. Makes a face, squints at the label, grimaces, and then sips again.
I’m frozen in place.
I’m not proud of my stillness since this is ostensibly a window to escape. I could run. Scream. Wake the ten other girls. I’m not here alone.
Would he kill them to capture me? Could I live with that horror on my conscience? Be so selfish as to drag them into this nightmare with me?
He sets the vodka down with a clank that I worry will break the bottle. Glances over at me. More Russian, followed by a sudden, unexpected grin.
I stiffen in response to the change in his expression. Not because his smile is menacing—because it’s not. I nearly smile back.
He’s attractive. Very attractive. That could be why he was chosen for this task. If I hadn’t been preoccupied by almost drowning, I would have been distracted by his appearance sooner.
“Are you okay?” he asks, which strikes me as a strange question.
I’m alive, obviously, maybe to his disappointment. My never surfacing would have simplified his assignment. A cold trickle of apprehension slithers down my spine as I consider the reasons he might have been instructed to capture me conscious.
I nod once.
His smirk remains, but it twists. Becomes a little mocking, I think. “Ask me the same?”
He holds his palm up, flashing the red indentation, dotted with beads of blood—a perfect print of my teeth—readily visible against pale skin. He must not spend much time outdoors during daylight hours because I can’t picture him slathering on sunscreen.
I scowl at his audacity to think I’m in the wrong. “You grabbed me,” I hiss, stopping short of adding the other crimes I fear are coming.
One eyebrow rises. “You are welcome.”
He doesn’t move closer. I glance around the Florricks’ yard, noting the ajar gate that normally covers a gap in the hedges. No other men. No discarded weapon. His words sound genuine, albeit disgruntled.
I allow myself to consider he’s not here to hurt me, yet his haughty tone prevents that from being a bigger relief. If he hadn’t grabbed me, I could have celebrated successfully saving myself rather than being thrust into a stronger state of fear.
“I was fine,” I reply defiantly. I’m not sure it’s the full truth, but I make it sound convincing.
“Mm-kay.” There’s no mistake he’s mocking me now. “Nice swimming.”
My mouth drops open in outrage. “I can’t swim.”
“No?” His surprise is feigned, I’m certain. That crooked grin is still in place.
“Whatever,” I mumble.
Other emotions are crumbling under embarrassment. Not because I can’t swim, but because a hot guy tried to help me float and I bit him. A stark reminder of what I was taunted by all day—I’ll never fit in, never be normal. Always be haunted by the past.
“Why not?” he asks, turning serious.
“What?”
He tilts his head left, studying me more intently than I’m comfortable with. “Why can you not swim?”
“Oh. I don’t—I just never learned.”
“Okay. Learn now.”
I blink rapidly. Tonight is becoming more bizarre by the second. “I—what?”
“Is easy. Start by kicking.”
I stare at him, too taken aback to speak. It’s the middle of the night, I’m wearing pajamas, we’re total strangers, and I nearly just drowned. My shaking muscles suggest I’m not physically capable of learning how to swim right now. Also, I’d really like to get out of this pool.
Yet I don’t leave.
And later, when I sneak back into my bunk, I accept it was fascination, not fear, that made me stay.