ONE HUNDRED SIX

ONE HUNDRED SIX

"MARCIE … DIETRICH … BOWERS," I say, my teeth chattering, my body in an uncontrollable shiver as I sit on the cot in the ambulance, swaddled in a heavy blanket.

The paramedic shines a light in my eyes. "And what day is it?"

"Fri — Friday. Don't … know the date." A vicious coughing spasm follows.

She clicks off the light. "We're putting in an IV of warm saltwater solution. Keep coughing. It's good to cough."

Well, that's good, because I've already regurgitated around half the contents of the Cotton River. Now my lungs, my abdomen just ache. But however stinging the cold, however beaten I feel, I can't deny an overwhelming feeling of relief, even euphoria.

Kyle, sitting in the corner of the ambulance, covered in a blanket of his own, punches out his phone, shaking his head. He looks over at me. "How's the patient?"

I try to smile.

"It was a stupid idea, Marcie. It was way too risky. If you'd given me more than ten minutes' notice of what you were doing, I never would've let you do it."

I cough again. I glance at him but don't respond.

"Which is why you didn't give me more than ten minutes' notice," he says. "I know, I know." He lets out a hard shiver. He's soaking wet, too. He was in the river, with one hand on the ladder, pulling me up to the surface one floating duffel bag at a time. They used something to cut the handcuffs, freeing my wrist from the bags.

"Anyway, he's dead."

"Si —" I try to finish his name but can't, overtaken by another coughing spell.

"No — well, yes, Silas is dead. But I was talking about Blair. You were wrong about him. He didn't try to talk his way out of it."

So when push came to shove, he realized he couldn't bullshit his way past that audio recording. "Su — sui — suicide?"

Kyle shakes his head. "No, but close enough. Suicide by cop. He drew his firearm. He had a dozen officers training their weapons on him, ordering him to raise his hands. He was never gonna shoot his way off that bridge. The sergeant on the scene said Blair made no real effort to fire. He just wanted the return fire from us."

Both Silas and Blair, dead. A tremor of cold slices through me.

"What did they want from you?" he asks. "What were they after?"

That's the right question. And the answer is easy. But maybe not so easy. Because it suddenly occurs to me that, with Silas and Blair both dead, the only living person who knows about the money is …

Me.

"Long story," I manage before breaking into another coughing spasm.

"We can talk about it later," he says. "You'll need to rest. Just be glad you survived."

I nod, take a couple of deep breaths. Never again will I take for granted the sweet joy of breathing, the simple act of inhaling oxygen and expelling carbon dioxide.

"Or did you?" he says.

I look at him with a question.

"Maybe you didn't survive, Marcie Bowers."

I don't catch his meaning. But he fixes his stare on me, raises his eyebrows.

"Oh," I say. "Right."