Page 112 of Darkwater Lane

My lungs burn. Scream. I desperately plead with my body to hold on.

It reminds me of all those nights with Melvin. All those times he choked me during sex, and I would tell myself to hold on.

To not let go.

I would tell myself I could do this.

I would tell myself I was a survivor.

I refused to let him win then.

I will not let him win now.

Melvin trained me for this. He trained me to fight against the strain of my lungs. He trained me to see past the darkness clouding my vision. He trained me to hold my breath longer than I ever thought possible.

My hand breaks the surface. Then my head. I suck in a gasp of frozen air that burns against my lungs. I gag and reach for the edge of the boat. I haul Madison up next to me, rolling her onto her back so she faces the sky.

She sputters and coughs. Drags in a breath. Then another.

For a moment, all we can do is struggle to breathe. Panting and coughing.

Madison groans and twists in my arms. We face each other, treading water.

“You saved me,” she says, her voice raspy. She stares at me with an expression of awe and wonder. “I knew you would. I knew I wasn’t wrong about you—that you’re like me.”

I shake my head. “I’m nothing like you,” I tell her. “I’m not a monster.”

Her expression breaks. Pure disappointment and regret and sadness.

She leans toward me. Presses her cheek to mine. I feel her hand on my arm. I brace myself, worried she’s about to push me under.

Instead, she murmurs. “Yes, you are, Gina.”

Her hand closes around mine. Before I understand, before I even realize that I still hold the knife in that hand, she raises itbetween us. Tries to turn it against me. I’ve practiced enough self-defense that I evade her attack easily.

Too easily.

She doesn’t resist when I twist our hands so the knife’s no longer pointed in my direction. When I thrust the blade away from my face.

I realize too late that her intention isn’t to attack me. I’m not her target.

She is.

While I push away, she leans in. The knife cuts clean into her neck.

I freeze, shock washing through me.

“No,” I whisper. “Nonononononono,”

Blood, hot and thick and warm, spills over my hand. My wrist. Down my arm. It streams into the water. Darkness meeting darkness.

I flex my fingers, immediately dropping the knife. It falls into the water. It’s too late. The damage is done. A puncture wound to her neck, gaping wide.

“No!” I shout. I try to press my free hand against the wound, hoping to hold it closed. It’s no use. She cut too deep, severed too much. Her breathing gargles. She tries to speak, but it’s impossible. She begins to convulse.

“I’m here,” I tell her. I remember holding a different woman when she died. Sheryl Lansdowne had done terrible things. She’d killed her infant twins, among others. Still, she hadn’t deserved to die the way she did: tortured and left to bleed out on a cold warehouse floor.

Tears stream from Madison’s eyes, and I push her hair from her face, leaving streaks of watery red across her forehead and cheeks. I have no idea if these are tears of rage or fear or regret. All I know is that her death is a waste. Another of Melvin’s victims, his reach spreading so far from the grave.

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