Blake stands and shuffles toward the stairs. “Are you okay on your own for a minute? I need to—”

“Sleep,” I interrupt, gaining my feet. “You look like shit on a plate.”

His mouth curves up on one side. “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” I say with a brush of my hand at the stairs. “Get some sleep and I’ll make you some lunch whenever you’re ready.”

The almost-smile clears and his gaze goes suddenly intense. “Thanks,” he says again, and I get the feeling there’s more he wants me to hear, though I’m not sure what it is.

“You’re welcome. Now go.”

He keeps me fixed in his intent gaze for a second longer, then turns for the stairs.

Mindlessly, I drift to the kitchen and pour myself another cup of coffee, then climb the stairs to the office. I peruse the shelves without reading any of the titles and randomly come away with one of the Harry Potter books. I settle onto the sofa and mechanically thumb past pages of words, but I don’t see any of them.

Jonathan took a bullet trying to protect me the night of the crash. I love him like a brother. Granted, a really horny brother, but a brother nonetheless. The look on his face as Cooper dragged him away—the hurt in his eyes when he realized I didn’t believe in him—is etched indelibly in my mind. I need to apologize to him. If I could just talk to him . . .

If I could just talk to anyone. Izzy. Ginger. Katie.

Mom.

Maybe it’s almost getting killed . . . twice, but I miss her, and I suddenly feel so homesick it hurts. An overwhelming swell of claustrophobia wraps itself around me, and I feel like I’m being smothered. I can’t do this. Mom throwing me out; Blake, Jonathan, the fact that Ben wants me dead—none of this can be happening to me. This is someone else’s life I’m trapped in.

My head swims with the panic that’s taking control of me. I launch off the sofa to the window and press my palms against it, breathing hard. Freedom is just on the other side of the thin glass.

The urge to run is overpowering, and I fly down both flights of stairs and rocket onto the deck, sprinting down the path to the pool. When I get there, I don’t even slow, diving head first into the warm water in my jeans and tank top.

And I swim.

I beat my way through the water, the drag of my clothes making it a challenge to stay afloat. But I keep going. I don’t heed the ache in my shoulder, or my burning lungs, or limbs that are turning to lead. I keep swimming.

And when I can’t move another muscle, I sink to the bottom and just sit here. My lungs are on fire, but I don’t care. It’s quiet down here, even my thoughts muffled.

Down here is the only place I’ve found peace since this whole thing started.

Down here, everything else goes away.

THROUGH THE SPOTS  flashing in my eyes, I see a streak of white bubbles as a splash sounds from the surface. The next second there’s a strong arm clamped around my chest, and I’m pressed to a hard body behind.

Blake pulls me to the surface and onto the stairs, where he sits, holding my limp body against his, our limbs twisted together as I gasp for air.

“I’m sorry,” he says into my hair.

I barely hear him over the pulse pounding in my ears, but the ache in his voice as he says it tears at my soul. I claw at him, burrowing deeper into his muscled chest. His arms circle me, gently at first, then more fiercely as ugly sobs start to erupt out of me. He crushes me against his body, holding me together as I fall apart, murmuring, “I’m sorry,” over and over, his lips moving on my forehead.

My last thought is that I’m suffocating without him, and then everything goes dark and I float away.

I WAKE UP in my bed and I have no recollection how I got here. . . . I was in the pool. Blake came in after me.

And now I’m in my sleep shirt under my sheets.

It’s sunset outside my window, and my hair is barely damp, so the pool must have been a while ago. My head throbs, trying to piece it together.

I pull myself to a sitting position and my head protests again.

“How are you feeling?” I look toward the door and find Blake sitting in the armchair in the corner. He still looks a little pale, but otherwise okay.

My eyes are draw to the bandage on his arm. “Good. How about you?”

“Never better.” He leans so his elbows are on his knees, and his gaze is all concern. “I can get you some coffee, or tea, or . . . anything you need.”

I swallow and my throat feels swollen. “Coffee would be good, thanks.”

He nods and stands. “I’ll be right back.”

The way he says it, like he’s afraid something will happen to me in the minute it takes him, makes me look at him funny. “Okay . . .”

He vanishes out the door, and a second later I hear him rattling around in the kitchen.

I sit and look at myself, wondering how I got into my sleep shirt. When I stumble into the bathroom, I find my jeans, tank, and bra hanging on the towel hooks to dry. But I’m in the same underwear, and it’s still a little damp between the legs.

I lean on the counter, trying to remember. Blake pulled me to the stairs. Then what?

I head out to the kitchen and nearly run into him on his way back to my room with my Alcatraz mug.

“You’re up.” He hands me the cup and I take it.

“Did you change me out of my clothes?” I demand.

He rubs his neck and turns back toward the kitchen, avoiding my eyes and my question, and that’s all the answer I need. “Are you hungry?”

“A little,” I say, following him.

He ducks into the fridge, and when he comes out with a bowl of fresh strawberries, his eyes flick to mine. “We have counselors . . . at the agency.”

“Are you going to talk to them?” I ask, slipping onto a stool and setting my mug on the counter.

He tips his head in a question. “I meant for you . . . if you need to talk to someone.”

I pluck a berry from the bowl and bite it. “About . . . ?”

“About . . . what happened. You’ve been through a lot this last month, and . . . if you’re depressed, or . . .”

“I’m not depressed.”

“Sam,” he says, fixing me in a concerned gaze, “you tried to drown yourself.”

My eyes widen as I get what he’s thinking. “What? Hell, no! I’m not suicidal, Blake! I just . . . it’s all kind of overwhelming, you know? I just needed to turn off my brain for a little while.”

His gaze turns skeptical. “By swimming yourself to exhaustion and nearly drowning in the bottom of the pool?”

I shrug. “Yeah . . . I guess.”

He shakes his head and rakes a hand through his hair, grabbing onto a fistful as he breathes out a frustrated sigh. “Christ, Sam. You scared the shit out of me.”

“If I ever get out of here, I’m going swimming in the ocean.” It’s a totally random thought, but I feel the sudden need to do it. Maybe I need to prove to myself I’m tough enough to handle anything, even sharks. Even Ben.

He leans on his elbows across the counter. “I thought you were galeophobic?”

I take my mug and go to the sofa, sinking into the corner and curling my legs under me. “But life is about facing your fears, right? Isn’t that what you said?”

He gives me a slow nod, the worry in his gaze shifting to something brighter—something that might be admiration. And I realize I want it to be. I want him to have a reason to think I’m something other than a babysitting job. I want to be someone worthy of his time.

“Are you going to get him?” I ask with a sudden determination to do anything I can to help.

He moves around the counter and settles onto the sofa next to me. “Our search of Arroyo’s records didn’t turn up the smoking gun we were hoping for. We haven’t been able to find anything to directly connect him to the disappearance of that girl, and we’ve come up nearly empty-handed with physical evidence from the club that would implicate him in Weber’s murder. They did a really good job of keeping the scene and the body clean. The only thing we’re sure about is you were the last person to see Weber alive. That means he didn’t leave Arroyo’s office on his own two feet. Arroyo most likely had his goons carry the body out.”