Page 107 of Darkwater Lane

I get my first glimpse of Sam. He’s lying crumpled in the bow. Blood spills from a wound in his arm and collects in a puddle under his head from where it cracked against the gunwale.

His face is pale. His eyes closed.

He’s not moving.

All the breath leaves my lungs.No!I scream inside.Nonononono. This isn’t happening. He’s not dead. He can’t be. Not after everything we’ve been through together. After everything we’ve survived.

I scuttle into the other boat, dropping to my knee beside him. Trying to keep the gun on Madison, I press my fingers to the side of his throat with my free hand.Please please please please?—

There’s a pulse. Steady and strong. His chest rises and falls evenly.

He’s alive.

I want to collapse with relief, but I can’t. Instead, I let out a slow, tremulous breath.

“Get us to shore,” I order Madison.

She’s still sitting at the rear of the boat, hands on her head. She doesn’t move. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, Gwen. You have to believe me.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” I feel my control slipping. “Get this fucking boat started now!”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know how,” she wails.

“Prime the damn engine and pull the cord.”

She hesitates, then scrambles toward the motor.

While she’s focused on that, I try to assess Sam’s wounds, but it’s difficult one-handed. I glance again toward Madison, still fumbling with the motor. I calculate the distance between us, trying to determine whether it’s safe for me to set the gun down. If she lunges at me, can I grab it before she makes it across the length of the boat?

It’s a risk I’m willing to take. My eyes dart between Madison and Sam as I run my hands down his body. I find the wound on his arm—a through-and-through shot up near the shoulder. Not life-threatening.

The real issue is the gash on his head from where he hit the gunwale. I gently probe at the area. The bone feels intact, but it’s a bad sign that he’s still unconscious. His injuries aren’t immediately life-threatening, but he needs a hospital.

“I’m here, Sam,” I murmur, pressing my hand against his forehead. “You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

I still haven’t heard the cough of the engine and I look back to see what’s taking Madison so long. She crouches at the stern, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t,” she sobs. “Sam’s the one who started it the first time. I’m trying to remember what he did, but something’s wrong with it. I—I think it’s flooded or something.”

I curse under my breath. I consider crawling back there and starting it myself, but my gut tells me to keep my distance. She’sdangerous—despite her attempts to appear otherwise. I could try to haul Sam into the boat I used, but I dismiss that idea out of hand. It would be too dangerous and unwieldy.

But thatdoesgive me an idea. “Get in the other boat,” I tell Madison. If I can put some distance between us, I can get to the stern and start the engine. I can get us to shore and find help for Sam. It’s a risk, and it might give her a chance to escape, but right now, that’s not my biggest concern. Sam is.

Madison shifts to her knees, hands in front of her, pleading. “You have to listen to me, Gwen. Sam came to my house tonight. He swore he was going to kill me.”

As much as I don’t want to believe her, I realize there’s a solid chance she’s telling the truth. Not him threatening to kill her, but him going to her house to confront her. Obviously, whatever plan he had—if he even had one—backfired. I don’t know how she got the upper hand, but he clearly underestimated her.

If Sam were conscious, I would grab him and ask him what the hell he’d been thinking. Once we get to the hospital and he’s cleared by the doctors, I plan to do just that.

But I have to get him to shore first.

“Get in the other boat,” I tell her again, my voice menacing.

Except she won’t shut up. “He pulled a gun on me, Gwen. He forced me down here. He was going to drown me, just like he did Rowan. I saw him the night she was murdered. Through the window. I was up getting a glass of water and I watched him come home late. I saw the mud on his pants.”

I shake my head. “He had a flat tire,” I tell her, echoing the excuse he’d given me. Even I recognize how lame it sounds. That’s the problem with alibis—sometimes they’re so mundane they seem ridiculous.

“Look.” She shifts, holding up her right leg. There’s a thick rope tied around her ankle. The other end is attached to a concreteblock resting in the stern. “He was going to drown me. Why would I do this to myself?”

My throat goes dry. She has a point. I glance at Sam, still unconscious by my side. I watch his chest rise and fall evenly. I know this man. I know his heart. I know he would do anything for our family. The doubts from before nip at the edges of my thoughts.

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