As I search the dark grass with a flashlight app on my phone, I remember how blistered Meredith’s skin looked when they loaded her into the ambulance, and how lost Cross looked beside her. That was the first moment I’ve felt at peace about Adam’s and my breakup. At peace about Cross and his choices, and about what happened between the two of us. Before the ambulance doors shut, Cross hugged me, and it felt like we were friends again. After the ambulance doors shut, I thought about the look on Cross’s face—one of total devastation—and I knew Adam wouldn’t have looked that way about me. He would have been upset and unhappy, sure, but never devastated. Honestly, I can’t say I would have been devastated if that had been Adam in the ambulance.
I glance up at what remains of the building. Made to look like an English manor house, the “main house” was made of stone and wood. It’s situated between two smaller replicas; one of which got burned some, the other of which did not. The main house, of course, is all but gone.
I wonder how hot the fire must have been to crumple the stone. The building is still pouring smoke, emitting enough heat to make me sweat from thirty feet away. In some places, you can see down to the charred twigs of the house’s foundation. In one spot, I can see what’s left of a large bed-frame.
It’s hard to believe that a few hours ago this place was fully operational and now it’s just…decimated. Gone, the beauty of the rugs and bookshelves. Gone, my luggage and clothes. Gone, the open bar, the plush beds, soft rugs.
Less than three hours ago, I was consoling Lizzy about her pregnancy. How did that night turn into this? How could anyone be so filled with hate and evil that they chase a victimized woman into another country and try to kill her?
It makes me feel ill.
I look up when I see the darting blue-green light coming from the pool. A light breeze ripples the water’s surface, casting shadows through the glowing water. It’s so pretty, compared to the devastation around it, that for a second I just stare. And that’s when I notice: There’s something big and dark at the bottom.
I walk slowly forward, because the firefighters have said to be cautious, and the pool is right behind the charred remains of the house. My eyes are trained on the object at the bottom of the water—something about it tugs at my attention, but I have no idea what it is. A chunk of the roof? A piece of the window Cross and Merri jumped out of?
I step onto the pool’s cement deck, and all the air goes out of my lungs.
Holy shit, that’s a person!
I hesitate for a moment—long enough to ask myself if this person might still be alive—before realizing I’m wasting precious time. I kick my shoes off and dive into the deep end of the heart-shaped pool.
The water is breathtakingly cold. I open my eyes and kick toward the bottom, stretching my arms to reach for this person.
It’s dark at the bottom of the pool, so it isn’t until I’ve grabbed the person’s large shoulders that I see the outline of his face.
NO FREAKING WAY.
It’s him.
It’s Marchant Radcliffe, I think.
I know.
The shock of it is almost enough to send me racing for the surface. But I can see him laughing at my panic. I thread my arms under his, kick off the bottom of the pool, and scissor my legs as hard and fast as I ever have.
Don’t be dead.
Please, you freaking asshole, don’t be dead.
Oh God, what if he’s dead?
I can barely get my face above the water; he’s so heavy. When I do, I take a deep breath and begin to sob.
“Marchant… Oh, Marchant. Shit. Oh shit.” I’m babbling as I kick, reaching for the pool’s side. I grab onto a metal ladder and I let myself sink a little, swimming beneath him to turn him over, face up. His hair is in his eyes and his face is limp and lifeless as I scream, “HELP! HELP, HELP! HELP ME, PLEASE!”
I can’t get him out of the pool, so I wrap my legs around the ladder and clutch his torso. His face is so pale. Is he breathing? I can’t see his chest move. I grab his chin. Isn’t that part of CPR? It is. It definitely is. Except there’s water in his lungs! Surely there’s water in his lungs and how do you do CPR if there’s water in the lungs?!
“HELP ME! HELP!”
Why won’t anybody come?
I try to tilt his head back but he starts to sink. Shit! I don’t have a good enough grip on him. I hear footsteps and clutch him closer to me, kicking hard to keep my head above water, craning my head so I can see, over my shoulder, two figures moving fast with clomping footsteps.
“HELP ME! PLEASE!”
With difficulty, I turn a little more and see two EMTs—a man and a woman—reach for us.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! I think he might have drowned!”
Faster than I can get the words out, they haul him up out of the water and dump him face down on the deck. I scramble up the ladder. I stand there dripping, shaking violently, while one of them pounds on his back and the other one messes with his head.
Please let him live. Please God, let him live.
They roll him onto his side. While the man holds his head, the woman does something to his mouth. They push him onto his back. One of them shouts something, and then the woman begins CPR.
“Marchant, please! You’ve got to breathe!” I’m sobbing, now on my knees. I reach out, because I feel like I should touch him, but one of the EMTs knocks my hand away.
The next second, Marchant’s body heaves, the woman rolls him on his side, and I can see his back heave as he gets sick.
The paramedics hold his shoulders, and the night is filled with retching sounds and the splash of water on cement. I scoot away to give them space, but I can’t take my eyes off him. It’s impossible to reconcile: this image with the one from the bathroom at the Wynn. The charming rogue who held my hand, and later, at the hospital, the drunken asshole. His shoulders are shaking now. He’s groaning and gasping, almost sobbing. I can’t see him from the front, but suddenly I wish I could. I wish I was holding him.
I take a few steps closer, and the woman barks, “Stay back!”
I take a step back, then turn because I hear an ambulance cutting through the grass. It parks close and two people jump out, one with oxygen and the other with a neck brace and a board.
They all converge over Marchant as he’s rolled onto his back. They’re speaking quickly, but I hear, “found him in the pool…”
“…administered CPR…”
“…pulse is weak…”
All too soon, they’re lifting him onto a stretcher and strapping down his legs.
He makes a terrible groaning noise and tries to pull the oxygen mask off his face, and they strap down his arms and someone holds the oxygen on. He starts shaking, violent shaking, and they turn his head sideways so he can be sick again.
More water.
When he’s finished, he’s moaning and gripping the sides of his stretcher.
They take off toward the ambulance, and I dash after them. It’s not my place. I know that, but I can’t help myself. I put my hand on the door of the ambulance as they set him down inside. When one of them gives me an inquiring look, I blurt, “I feel like I should come with him.”
“Well, come on.”
The doors slam shut behind me, and I scramble to a little seat by his head.
The ambulance jolts into motion, and all I can think is this was a mistake. I don’t belong here. The EMTs are pulling his jeans down and I can see his hips, and they’re beautiful—underwear model hips—but I have no right to them. He keeps opening and closing his mouth under the mask, and his eyes peek open and drift shut, and his hands still clench the stretcher.