Page 87 of Glass Rose
I kick out instinctively and lose my balance, the movement sending me into a wild, flailing free-fall. No graceful swan dive. Just a dumb scientist descending ass-over-teakettle toward the water below.
Gavin’s face flashes through my mind. Those beautiful blue eyes, the unexpected gentleness of his touch despite his scarred hands, the way he looks at me like I matter in a world where nothing should.
I’m sorry.
TWENTY
GAVIN
John’s ragged breathing against my neck reminds me I’m running out of time—for him, for Sofia, for all of us. His blood seeps through my shirt, warm and sticky between my shoulder blades where his wounded arm dangles.
The keypad of the weathered blue boathouse beeps, red light turning green with a mechanical click, and I shoulder the door open, dragging us both inside before kicking it shut behind me. The interior is dim, illuminated only by thin strips of sunlight filtering through dusty windows. Three boat slips, two empty.
Someone’s been here.
That can be either good or bad.
John mumbles something incomprehensible, his body growing heavier against me. I place him onto the wooden dock, propping him against a support beam.
“Stay with me, old man.” I tap his cheek. “Just a little longer.”
“I’ll try.”
The remaining boat sits low in the water, a sleek twenty-footer with an outboard motor. Military-grade, designed for stealth and speed.
I return to John, hooking my arms under his shoulders. “This is gonna hurt.”
“Everything hurts,” he slurs. “Where’s… Sofia?”
“We’re going to get her now.” I position him carefully on the rear bench and secure him with a life vest, more to keep him upright than for safety. If we capsize, he’s dead anyway. “Hang tight.”
He manages a weak nod before his head lolls back against the seat. His eyes close, but his chest still rises and falls.
I untie the mooring lines and start the engine. It catches on the first try, a low, powerful rumble that vibrates through the hull, and I ease the throttle forward, guiding us out of the boathouse and into the open harbor.
The bridge is about half a mile away. I cut through the water, pushing the engine harder than I should.
Every second counts.
I spot movement along the bridge railing. Infected, dozens of them, crowding against the edge where Sofia must have jumped. Some are falling or being shoved over the edge by the mass of bodies behind them, hitting the water with sickening splashes. The current carries their bodies away, but they continue to move, arms grasping at water and air as they sink.
I search for any sign of her. “Sofia!”
Nothing.
My heart slams against my ribcage. The water stretches empty in every direction, just choppy waves and floating debris. Fuck. FUCK.
She has to be here. She has to be alive.
“SOFIA!”
I cut the engine to idle, straining to hear any sound over the slap of waves against the hull and John’s labored breathing. The cold water would sap her strength quickly.
How long has it been? Five minutes? Ten? Too fucking long.
No!
She’s alive. She has to be. She can do this.
