Page 81 of They're Watching You

I don’t let myself think about it. I know how to swim. I used to do it all the time. I kick off my shoes and approach the water, shutting off my thoughts; if I think about it, I’ll fail.

I plunge in, the water a cold shock that strangles me as I swim for the item at the bottom. But a few feet down, I start to panic. My mouth opens despite my efforts to keep it shut, letting in the disgusting water. Flailing, I grab for the ends of my hair, certain they’re trapped, though I’m nowhere near the drain.

I surface, gulping in air and water all at once.

Remington’s figure is hunched on the side of the pool. His look pleads, saying what he can’t shout in front of the cameras.

I inhale, slow and deep. Then I dive back down again, forcing my eyes open against the stinging chemicals. The water pulls against my jeans. I reach for the small object, my lungs screaming, about to burst.

My fingers curl over the tiny bottle, and I flip my body, pushing off against the bottom with my feet.

I burst through the surface, wheezing in a painful breath and coughing up the water still trapped in my lungs. I dog-paddle to the side, where Remington seems torn between helping me up and standing his ground. He flicks his chin toward the bottle clutched in my fist.

“It’s not the game piece,” he whispers, daring to sidestep closer to me. “It’s down there.”

I’ve already uncorked my bottle, dropping the rolled paper into my palm. I read the message, even though I don’t have to. Because I know where the game piece is.

Your first game piece lies behind the door at the bottom of the sea.

The drain.

That bastard.

Pins prick over my scalp, and I hunch over to catch my breath. “I—I can’t.”

“You just did so well,” he pleads. “Think of it like taking a very cold bath.” He forces a smile.

“I take showers.”

Remington gnaws on his lower lip. “The society has no rules.Anything goes. But they’ll be on to us.”

Before I can ask what he means, Remington is hurtling himself back into the pool. I peek, watching his arms yank and turn as he unscrews the cover, and hunch back down again.

Then a horrible thought thrashes my mind. The filtration pump is still on. What if he—? I dart around the pool’s edge, searching for the pump, unable to watch him get eaten by the drain, which is identical to the one that nearly killed me.

Finally, I spot the series of pipes attached to a cylindrical nozzle. I sprint to it, alarms blaring in my head when I realize it’s not a simple on/off switch. There are various knobs, dials, and timers, and fear of somehow turning the suction higher while Remington’s arm is in there freezes me where I stand.

I reach out, placing my hand on the switch that looks most promising, pulse thumping in my neck. But behind me, water splashes and I spin around to find Remington breaching the surface.

The drain didn’t kill him. He swims to the side, and that crippling fear that it’s my turn takes hold of me.

Maybe he left the cover off, at least. I remove the elastic from my wrist and tie my hair back out of my face.

Seated on the edge of the pool, huffing, Remington throws his T-shirt on over his dripping wet body.

“I know,” I grumble in irritation. I’ve got to face my biggest fear. And I will, even if the drain kills me before I get the chance to save myself.

Remington gets up, sliding an arm into his coat sleeve, whatever he found at the bottom of the drain clenched in his fist. Once his shoes are on, he tosses one last look back at me before heading out into the night, leaving me alone with my watery grave.

I stare down into the unnaturally blue water, the horrible realization wrapping around my throat: Remington just abandoned me to my worst fear.

Thirty-Two

I watch where he vanished through the door, and the sensation coils tighter, squeezing.

I can do this. I have to. But when I turn to face the pool, my vision goes foggy like the windows in this place.

My mouth is dry. Too dry. I may have only minutes before the poison starts to take hold of my mind.

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