Page 91 of Saltwater

But he noticed the way she looked at him when she let go of the wall. He felt her sudden, instinctual stiffening.Sarah. Oh, Sarah. She had always been a problem. Too smart for Richard. Too independent. Despite her insistence, Marcus didn’t believe her. He knew her. Had known her in a way her husband couldn’t.

“Okay,” he said, turning her down another narrow alleyway. “Let’s take this route home. It will be faster.”

It would also, he knew, be quieter.

Sarah looked wistfully at the main pedestrian street that would skirt them along the bustling Via Camerelle, but she didn’t protest, whether out of exhaustion or injury or trust, he wasn’t sure. Even so, they couldn’t move quickly through the dark alleys of Capri. It was impossible. Sarah’s steps were halting. It was a delicate balance, a dance between reaching the privacy of the villa and doing so in a way that would not look coercive to a passerby. Or to her.

Just as Marcus was feeling confident this route had been the correct one, he heard them. A group, speaking in English, of course, with thick British accents, making their way up the pedestrian street. When they rounded the corner—six of them—he felt Sarah freeze.

“I told you it was impossible not to think about her that way—” one of the men in the group said, his words slurring together.

“Ah, sorry, mate.” Another attempted to slide past Sarah and him, but the street was narrow and they were almost at an impasse.

“Wait,” Sarah said, her hand reaching out to grab one of their shirts. “Help me.”

Her voice was strong and clear, and the group, despite their drunken banter, stopped. They looked between Marcus and Sarah. Marcus could feel them evaluating the scene—her dress, his clothes, the way she slumped against him. Marcus wondered if they could see the trickle of blood meandering down her neck through her long hair.

“Is there a problem?” one of them asked. But he was unsteady on his feet, almost swaying.

“Help me,” Sarah repeated.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus said, “my sister-in-law fell this evening and hit her head. I’m just trying to get her home. She needs help.”

Marcus could feel Sarah leaning harder against him. Richard might not have killed her, but she was getting weaker. Perhaps it was only adrenaline and desperation that had helped her make it this far. But now, with the possibility of help here, she was losing her ability to stand.

It would be impossible, he knew, to take on all six of them if they decided to intervene. That would be it. Not just for him, but for the entire Lingate family. They stood in a tense silence, and Marcus could feel them assessing: Sarah, nearly comatose, him in tasseled Tod’s loafers, them late for the bar. Then he watched them note the wedding rings they were both wearing, Sarah’s necklace.

“Do you need help getting her home?” one of them finally asked.

Sarah started to speak, but Marcus intervened. “No, that’s okay. I’ve called a private doctor. He’s waiting for us at the house.”

Again, another rough patch of silence. Until one of them, one at the back of the group, his voice too loud, spoke up and said, “Good luck with her, then!”

They moved on, the laughter echoing off the stone walls. The weight of Sarah’s body fell against him.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

“I don’t want to go with you.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Even though she couldn’t hold herself up, Sarah tried to wrest herself free. She pushed against Marcus with one hand and tried to leverage her body away with the other. She struggled so much that Marcus had to grab her by the wrists and say:

“Stop it. Stop it, okay? We need to get home. We need to get home and then we can figure out what to do, okay?”

“You already know what you’re going to do,” she said, her voice almost hoarse. “You won’t let him take the fall for this. You won’t let it happen to the family. So why not do it right now? Do it here. Don’t make me go anywhere with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sarah. You’re hurt. You don’t remember what happened. We just need to get you home and get you better.”

But even as he said it, he knew she was right. He did know what he had to do. “Come on. Just one foot in front of the other.”

But her body went limp.

“No,” she cried. “I won’t. I won’t go with you.” Then she cried out, into the night, “Help! Help!Aiuto! Per favore!” Marcus clapped a hand over her mouth and tried to hoist her up off the ground where she had fallen, her dress a puddle of red around her legs.

“Shut up,” he whispered. But the only thing that called back to them was the steady thump of a club track from the Marina Piccola. “Just shut up. If you won’t walk, I’ll carry you.”

He looped an arm under her legs and around her back. She was heavier than he thought she would be. But then, it was probably because she refused to help, her body loose and weighing him down. He had let go of her mouth to pick her up, but now, instead of yelling, she was looking around frantically, at every door and every intersection, to see if there were strangers she might enlist. Although they could hear them, on the next street over, on the decks of yachts, on the balconies of the villas, they never ran into anyone.

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