Once they boarded, I followed orders. I slid into the ocean, took several deep breaths of air, then submerged, using the anchor chain to descend three meters underwater.
At first, I floated idly beneath the surface. After seventy seconds, I grew anxious. With every passing second, I gripped the chain tighter, swaying with the formidable current, trying to not let go. It was dark all around me and so deep I heard nothing from the surface. I felt only the pulsing of my heart and the aching burn of my lungs.
But my father had told me to wait.
So I held there, suspended between the black abyss beneath and the danger above. I pressed my lips together so they wouldn’t open. I clung to the anchor chain because that was my link to survival.
The next thing I remember was an arm fastening around my waist. He pulled me to the surface. Choking out water, I gasped for air. My father swam us to the stern, grabbed hold of the ladder, and, in one motion, pulled me out of the water.
“Is she hurt, Kent?” my mother cried, dropping onto the deck.
My father placed both hands on my heaving shoulders and smiled at me. “No,” he said softly, “she did great.”
Then he hugged me so tightly I thought my lungs would collapse.
Over his shoulder I saw four bloodied bodies floating in the water.
Facedown.
CHAPTER 12
An outbreak of cheers, compounded by an earsplitting buzzer, brings me back to Waterford.
Catching my breath, I look up at the board. Did I miss Emma’s race?
I walk forward through the lobby, squishing through the bodies toward the bleachers. I am scanning the crowd for Charlotte and Mason, when my gaze locks on somebody else instead.
Across the pool deck, Aksel stands out like a Vilebrequin ad on a Paris billboard. He’s drying his wet hair with a towel. He has warmup pants on, but no shirt, exposing an enormous, muscular chest. I scan the scoreboard—was he racing?
When I look back at him, his eyes catch mine.
An embarrassed flush extends across my body.
Several thoughts cross my mind in rapid succession: Do I look away? Do I smile and wave? Do I walk over and congratulate him? Why is it always such a game between us?
With a vague nod of his head, Aksel turns away from me, tosses the towel into a bin near the bleachers, and ducks into the locker room. I can’t decide which bothers me most: Aksel turning away from me, or the fact that I didn’t turn away from him first.
While the flashback is gone, the sensations linger—my legs ache, my vision is foggy.
I still need air.
Maneuvering back through the crowd choking the entrance, I head outside.
It is a dark, clear night. Constellations of stars sparkle above.
I decide to walk toward Charlotte’s Pathfinder at the periphery of the lot to wait.
Halfway there, I feel it.
My parents firmly believe in a “hex” sense—Greek for sixth.
If you don’t want to be noticed, keep your head down, because if you look at someone long enough, they’ll sense you looking at them and will look in your direction. Wave-particle duality, my father says.
This is what I sense now—quantum physics.
My eyes sweep the darkness.
At first, I see nothing. Then I notice a few rows back is a red truck with rust crusted around the wheel wells. Someone is alone inside it. Shadow obscures the man’s face, yet a dim phone light casts a glow over the car’s interior, illuminating his eyes—fixated on me.
The base of my neck tingles.
I have nothing to fear in Waterford.
I’m on edge because of the flashback, is all.
Nonetheless, the reflection of light in his eyes reveals he is still watching me.
Instinctively, I reverse. I back toward the nearest entrance—crowds, safety.
However, when I look back at the truck—it’s empty.
I halt.
A bracing cold spreads down my spine and into my limbs.
Nearby, a car door opens, then slams shut.
My heart starts pounding.
Startled, my eyes skim the tranquil parking lot.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement from the direction of the truck.
A shadowy figure moves between cars—in and out of my vision.
… darkness … blinding flash of light …
I whip my head side to side, listening. Straining my ears.
His gait is slow. Arrhythmic. Unfamiliar.
My fingertips slide to my waistband.
Ahead, I hear the footsteps approaching—heavy boots—accompanied by ragged breathing.