I ended the recording.I tried Bobby first, but it went to voicemail, so I left a quick message explaining what had happened—leaving out the part where I was a colossal idiot.I tried dispatch next and got Jaklin Ruiz.
“I’m sending a car,” she told me.“Can you tell if she’s still alive?”
“I don’t know.Give me a sec.”
“Dash, we always tell people that they need to keep themselves safe first.If you think you’re in danger, you need to get out of there.”
I nodded—which Jaklin couldn’t see, I realized—and then I said, “Okay.Stay on the phone, and if I scream, try to record my dying words for posterity.”
“This is all being recorded,” Jaklin said.“Get yourself somewhere safe—”
But I didn’t hear the rest because I lowered the phone to my side and took a few more deep breaths.
Vivienne still hadn’t moved.I gave the grotto another glance, but as far as I could tell, Vivienne and I were alone.
Great.
I put Jaklin on speakerphone and said, “Here we go.”
“Dash—”
She kept talking, but the sound of the blood in my ears made it impossible for me to decipher the words.I forced myself to start walking.The grotto’s lights were behind Vivienne, and they filtered through her hair, turning it platinum and outlining (it seemed to me, anyway) each individual strand.A breeze generated by the waterfall brushed my face, shockingly cool against hot, sweaty skin.She still hadn’t moved.There was enough ambient light in the grotto that I could make out one of those piercingly blue eyes—blank now, and empty.
That, more than anything, convinced me.I’d seen dead people before.(Too many of them, if anyone’s asking.) She was dead; I knew she was dead.
But I had to be sure.
I crouched next to where she floated in the pool.She didn’t jump up.She didn’t scream.She didn’t whip out a gun.Her neck was still warm when I searched for a pulse.The flesh and muscle underneath were too soft and slack.
I tried for almost a full minute.And then I scooted away from her as fast as I could and said into the phone, “She’s dead.”
Chapter 6
Believe it or not, trained professionals do not take the word of a mystery writer.
Deputy Salk (that’s Deputy Salkanovic, Hastings Rock’s former star quarterback, about whom I once heard Maudette at Krabby Kuts say she wanted him to give her a piggy-back ride) (I was so uncomfortable I actually melted into that weird hair-cutting cape) and Deputy Nava (a new hire,finally) got there first.They worked together to get Vivienne out of the pool.Then Salk tried to take my statement while Deputy Nava checked on Vivienne—even though I told her that Vivienne was dead.Repeatedly.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Salk said.He had the same wide-eyed look he’d gotten when I’d tried to explain the plot to one of my favorite books.“Take a deep breath.There you go.Doesn’t that feel better?”
Itdidfeel better.
And about two seconds later, I became vaguely aware that I must look—and sound—deranged.
“You okay?”Salk asked.“Are you hurt?”
I shook my head.“Is she really dead?”
Deputy Nava made a face at Salk, and Salk said to me, “We’re going to walk down the path a way and take a break.”
So, we did.And Salk was nice about it, even when I couldn’t stop pacing.He asked me what had happened, and I told him.
And then Bobby was there, coming out of the darkness at a full sprint.He stopped when he saw me, and I couldn’t help it: my eyes stung, and all the terror that had been trying to boil up inside me finally broke free.
I didn’t even remember closing the distance between us; Bobby’s arms around me, crushing me to him, while he told me in a low voice that everything was going to be okay.
The sheriff came.The district medical examiner.More deputies.Portable lights went up.Bobby sat with me on the stone retaining wall until the sheriff finally came to talk to us.
She was a solidly built woman, hair in a ponytail and wearing a hat that said RIDGE COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE; it covered the little scar on her forehead.
