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A hand catches the back of my shirt.

I scream.

Ian yanks me backward hard enough that the collar bites into my throat. I twist, driving my elbow behind me, but he catches my arm and throws me off balance.

“You need to fucking stop!”

“Let go of me!”

“I am trying to fix this!”

The inanity of it almost makes me laugh.

Instead, I bite him.

Ian howls and releases me. I stagger away, nearly fall, then hear something scrape across the ground behind me.

I turn to find an oar in his hands. Everything around us seems to fall away until all I can see is Ian, the oar, and the drop behind me.

Casey saw this. Maybe the light was different, maybe she was closer to the edge, maybe she didn't understand what he was going to do until he was already doing it. But I do.

Ian looks down at the oar as though he's only just realized he's picked it up. “Serena.”

“Put it down,” I tell him, backing away.

“I'm not going to hurt you.”

My eyes flick toward the river, and I immediately correct course. I'm too close to the drop already, so I move sideways instead. Ian's gaze follows the movement, and something shifts in his expression when he realizes exactly what I'm doing.

“I said put it down,” I repeat.

“You just need to listen to me.” He takes another step toward me.

“I've been listening to you.” I move sideways again, putting more distance between myself and the edge.

“You know what happened now,” he says. “You know I didn't mean to kill her.”

“Yes.”

He stops, and for one fleeting moment, relief softens his face as I continue moving sideways. “You believe me.”

“I believe you didn't plan it,” I tell him.

His grip on the oar loosens slightly, like I've given him exactly what he needed to hear.

“But Casey is dead because of you, and nothing you say or do now will ever change that.”

The relief vanishes.

Every instinct in my body screams at me to move, but I wait until he's close enough that I can see his hands tighten around the wood.

Then he swings.

I duck.

The oar passes over my head with enough force that I feel the movement of air above me. His momentum carries him forward, one foot landing exactly where mine slipped moments ago.

His arms pinwheel, the oar dropping from his hands as he tries to recover, but there is nothing stable beneath his next step. His heel skids sideways. He goes down hard on one knee, catches himself, then slides another foot toward the edge before his hand closes around an exposed root.