Page 41 of Cruel Hearts

The driver’s side tire loses what grip on the riverbank it had, and we balance like a seesaw, the front tipping toward the water. The truck backs up, the engine growling. Gravity shoves me against the dashboard as the car angles downward.

Denton tenses, preparing for another jolt. The truck smashes into us, and my body is whipped forward even more. I don’t have the seatbelt holding me in place, and I hit the top of my head against the windshield.

We nosedive into the river. Water pours through the windows and the cracks around the doors, and I stifle a scream.

Denton struggles to push his body through his window, glass shards snagging his clothes. I force myself out of my shock to do the same. Even in late summer, the water’s frigid, and my muscles stiffen.

I’m completely under water in seconds, and I squeeze my eyes shut. In the movies, people are always swimming with their eyes open, searching for someone or something. All I see is blackness as I fight against the river’s current and the car’s weight dragging me down as it sinks.

My purse strap is caught on something, but I have no idea what. The door handle, maybe. I yank.

I didn’t suck in a big enough gulp of air before my head submerged under the water, and panic and lack of oxygen burn my lungs. If I want to live, I have no choice but to leave my purse behind. Quinn’s phone and wallet will be gone forever.

My things in the backseat are destroyed. I’ll have nothing left from who I used to be. I stop struggling against the water, against the resistance. There’s no point in fighting to survive. Ash took Zane away, and Zane murdered one of the few people who meant anything to me. Quinn will be safer without me. She’ll be okay—she was always tougher than me.

Zarah’s blank eyes stare at me through the murky water.

Ash sneers.

Bright lights spark behind my eyelids, and I hear Kagan and Lark begging me to avenge their deaths. That’s not my job, though.

It should be Zane’s.

Ash stole five years of my life. I should be spitting mad, but I’m so tired. I push the strap over my shoulder, but I still hang on. I don’t have much longer to decide. My mind is growing fuzzy.

The car’s sinking, and the suction hauls me down. Making a decision at the last possible second before my lungs give out, I let go of the strap and kick in the direction I think is up, hoping my body’s natural buoyancy will pop me to the surface like Denton said it would.

My head breaks above the water and I suck air into my burning lungs. A wave slaps me in the face, and I choke. Flailing, I go under again, but a strong arm loops around my ribcage. Denton. There’s water in my eyes and in my nose—my nasal passages and sinuses sting—and I have to force myself to relax to help him swim.

The riverbank is higher than the river’s depth, and two people lift me to shore. Weeds cover the ground, and their sharp thorns scratch my skin through my sopping wet clothes. I roll over onto my stomach and cough up water. Denton thumps me on the back. His words of encouragement to keep breathing are lost in the static in my ears and the commotion of emergency vehicles careening across the road.

I heft painfully to a sitting position, and a medic wearing a black uniform drops beside me and asks, “Are you okay, ma’am?” He’s young, and his blue eyes are kind.

“I think so,” I rasp.

Despite the heat of the late afternoon, paramedics drape blankets over our shoulders. Gratefully, I hug mine around me, clutching at the edges, my hands shaking.

Police wave off a crowd that gathers, and one cop questions Denton. He dries his face with the blanket and explains what happened, saying we were on a drive and conveniently leaving out where we had just been. He’s protecting Luis and Quinn, and I’ll have to remember to thank him later. The police officer looks at me for corroboration, and I nod. My teeth are chattering and I can’t speak.

The truck is nowhere to be seen, but the skid marks the vehicle left while shoving us into the river are grooved into the gravel. They’re the only proof we have Denton isn’t lying.

The paramedics quickly exam us and then drive away. I’m glad they didn’t force us to go to the emergency room. I don’t want to see the inside of the hospital again. Besides, there’s nothing they can do for me. I’m okay except I’m shivering from shock.

The train, the shooter, the car, and now almost drowning.

I’m going to go insane before I can expose the Blacks.

Denton wraps his arm around me, and I’m too grateful for the support to be apprehensive. I hide my face in his wet shirt.

The police ask us to go to the station to answer more questions. That’s the last thing I want to do, but unlike the paramedics, they don’t give us a choice. We leave behind other officers taking pictures of the skid marks and the deep grooves Denton’s car’s wheels made in the grass.

My clothes have barely begun to dry, and I sit in bitter silence in the back of the air conditioned squad car. I’m not in the mood to spend hours at the station talking to the cops—cops who may or may not be working for the Blacks. We can’t tell them the truth, and they won’t believe what little we can say. Wedon’tknow who was driving the truck, but we sure as hell know why they wanted us dead.

We sit in a sparse interrogation room and two of the cops who were at the river glare at us in disbelief. “This wasn’t random. You must have enemies.”

Denton shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. An old business colleague? But this seems rather extreme. I’m retired. Why would they wait until now to do something like this?”

“Right. ‘Retired,’” he says, sarcasm thick in his voice. “What about you?” he asks me. “You were involved in the active shootersituation outside the Maddox Industries building. Do you think this is connected?”

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