“Well, that, too,” Amber said with the smile that usually came so easily. Letting go of him, she called up the Instagram story and showed him her screen. A pop song blared from the phone’s tinny speakers as Campbell and van der Lind posed next to a pool, wearing tiny swimsuits, enormous sunglasses, and toothy smiles.
She is NOT America’s Most Wanted,read the blocky text.She is my friend. Bring her home safe!!!
Jordan’s stomach rolled. So many people were learning their loved ones had died today. “Does anyone think she’s actually guilty? Besides, you know, the judge and jury.”
“I think most people know she did it. Social media is never an accurate barometer because it pushes controversial opinions to the top. Her stepdaughter, who apparently never liked her in the first place due to the whole gold-digger thing, definitely thinks she’s guilty.”
Amber swiped until she found what she wanted, then showed him her screen again. The tweet from Taylor Campbell made his skin prickle.
IF SHE’S DEAD, SHE DESERVES IT.
TWO
CARA
FYI @carasloveisgold. There’s no such thing as a faux fur throw in the real wilderness.
—@helpfulhintress21
Every part of Cara’s body hurt, especially her knuckles, elbows, knees, and feet. Her head throbbed like she was having a migraine, her ears were ringing, and her throat was raw from vomiting up what felt like gallons of water. But surely the pain meant she was still alive. Then again, she had never died before. Maybe this was just how it felt.
The icy water—like a million simultaneous bee stings—had to have killed her. She’d been launched like a log through one rapid after another, submarining through a gauntlet of stabbing sticks and bruising rocks. Every time she managed to surface and gasp some air, she was pulled right back under.
Over and over.
Back when she was alive, she’d once read a sign beside the ice plunge at a spa:Give in to the pain. Surrender to the bliss.
There had been no bliss to be found as she was tossed around in the river, only overwhelming agony and the certainty she was about to crash into a boulder headfirst.
After which, presumably, she would feel nothing at all.
She’d tried to surrender, to give up peacefully and allow the current to take her where it wanted. Instead, as she was sucked down and dragged along the bottom of the river, she fought back, flailing toward the surface, desperate to relieve the incredible pain in her lungs. Adrenaline spiking in her chest, her numb limbs began to tingle with unexpected energy as she kicked, weakly at first, then harder, scooping with her hands until her head surfaced again.
The first painful gulp of air made her cough and choke, but she didn’t allow herself to be pulled back under. She put her arms out like wings and got her feet out in front of her, knees bent to take the impact. When she collided with a car-sized boulder, she pushed off, back into the stream.
Maybe the water finally got tired of playing with her. After who knew how many terrifying minutes, it dumped her into a shallow eddy. She paddled to shore and shakily stood, her throat, lungs, and stomach burning. She retched until her stomach was empty.
Somehow, she scrambled onto the bank, crawled into the brush, and collapsed beside a log. The last thing she remembered was hoping she was hidden from the glare of the sheriff’s flashlight.
Then she gave herself permission to die.
Her face was warm and her closed eyelids glowed red. Had she been sent to hell?
She opened her eyes—the left one only opened halfway—and winced at a beam of sunlight that cut through the forest canopy. Raising her head, she saw she was covered in leaves, decomposed wood, and God knew what other forest-floor gunk.
The pile of detritus must have insulated her well enough to stave off hypothermia. The gods who ruled rapids—like those in charge of head-on collisions, carnivorous creatures, and even hypothermia—had rejected her as an unfit sacrifice.
Cautiously, she lifted herself to a sitting position and flicked a pill bug from her sleeve. Her cotton-poly jumpsuit was still damp but had shed the water surprisingly well. While it had new rips at the knees and elbows—the cuffs were hopelessly frayed—it was otherwise still in one piece. She listened for voices or footfalls but couldn’t hear anything over the rushing water. Lifting her head, she peered cautiously over the log and saw that she was less than fifteen feet from where she’d washed up. How far had she traveled in the water? How soon would the area be swarmed with searchers?
Cara scanned the riverbank and the woods on the other side, but as far as she could tell, she was only being observed by a family of chipmunks and a bird making adee-do-dosound high in a nearby tree. She hoisted herself onto the rotting tree trunk to take inventory of her injuries. She had a bump the size of a walnut on her forehead and her left eye throbbed. Her lower lip was split and bleeding. Red scrapes connected the bruises dotting her arms and legs. But everything moved properly and in the right directions. She probed her belly but couldn’t feel anything unusually tender—not that she knew where anything vital was actually located. She could only hope there was no internal bleeding.
In twenty-four hours, she’d amassed enough near death experiences to start a YouTube channel:Watch Cara Campbell Almost Expire.
Water survival: achieved.
How many other ways were there tonotdie?
Leaning on the log for support, she stood up slowly to minimize the head rush. Even with the smoky haze filteringthe sun, she could already tell it was going to be a hot day. Her clothing would dry fast—faster than her shoes, which, amazingly, were still on her feet.
