Chapter 3 - The Cold Betrayal on the Riverbank
The current pulled fiercely at my clothes as I swam beneath the surface, hugging the muddy riverbed until my fingers brushed against the rough bark of a submerged log jam. My chest burned, threatening to burst, but I forced my limbs to keep moving until my head finally broke the surface inside the shadow of a rusted concrete drainage culvert.
Coughing and gasping for air, I dragged myself onto the dry, concrete ledge inside the pipe. The rain echoed hollowly against the curved walls, drowning out the distant sounds of the highway above.
I was freezing, soaking wet, and trembling so violently I could barely wrap my arms around my own chest. But as the initial wave of shock subsided, the sheer, burning reality of what had just happened settled into my bones.
Damian had tried to murder us.
My husband of three years had traded my life—and Andrew’s—for insurance payouts and whatever shadowy agreement he had forged with Clare.
Minutes ticked by like hours inside the culvert. Then, faint sirens began wailing in the distance, growing louder until flashing red and blue lights illuminated the rain-slicked highway above the embankment.
Peering cautiously out from the mouth of the drainage pipe, I watched the rescue operation unfold fifty yards upstream.
The local sheriff’s department cruisers had parked along the shoulder. A massive tow truck was already positioning its heavy steel cable toward the partially submerged SUV.
On the riverbank, standing beneath a large black umbrella held by a county deputy, Damian stood wrapped in a warm wool blanket provided by paramedics. His hair was wet, and he wore an expression of profound, theatrical grief. He was leaning heavily against Clare, who was patting his arm with slow, comforting strokes.
“He tried everything,” Clare was telling a local reporter and a pair of investigating officers, her voice carrying clearly across the water. “Damian broke his own hand trying to pry open the back doors. He’s an absolute hero. If he hadn't managed to crawl out of the driver's window just in time, he would have drowned right along with poor Ellie and Andrew.”
Damian let out a convincing, ragged sigh, burying his face in his hands. “I couldn't reach them. The water rushed in too fast... the doors jammed. I’m so sorry... I’m so sorry.”
From my hiding place inside the culvert, my stomach twisted into a knot of pure, unadulterated hatred. He wasn't crying. I could see the sharp angle of his jaw beneath his hands; he wasn't shedding a single tear. He was performing for the cameras, establishing his alibi before the wreckage could even be pulled ashore.
Then, a familiar figure stepped out from behind a state trooper's cruiser.
My breath caught in my throat.
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It was Andrew.
He had managed to cross the river further downstream, slipping past the perimeter unnoticed. But instead of hiding, he had changed into a dry canvas work jacket he must have found in an abandoned pump shed, and he was walking—walking steadily and naturally—directly toward the group of police officers standing around Damian and Clare.
