Scene 50

Dillon stood in the body marking station as a chattering Scottish woman meticulously applied the number 3 across her clean-shaven skin: first her upper arms, then her thighs, and lastly, her calves.

"Braw number, that. Good omen, if you ask me." The woman continued to hum away as she checked the ankle strap on Dillon's timing chip and gave her the thumbs up. "Alright, lass, get out there and give it laldy!"

Dillon said nothing, just walked away.

Roundhay Park was teeming with activity, spectators already lining the barriers to stake their claim on the best places to view the race. Somewhere in the crowd would be Seren. Sam. Her mam.

She didn't look that direction.

Instead, her attention turned to the gleaming surface of Waterloo Lake, where the swim course marshals were preparing to enter the water.

The race start was in less than an hour.

Scattered across the gentle slope of trampled grass, athletes were stretching, pulling on wetsuits, rubbing their faces with sunscreen and dusting their bodies with talcum powder.

Dillon knew she needed to join them. It was time to double-check her gear. To go through her race-day rituals to get fired up for the horn.

But it wasn't there—the rush of adrenaline, the unrelenting obsession that had fueled her ruthless ambition since the first time her dad pinned her with a competitor's number when she was twelve-years-old. There was no start line anxiety. No pre-race jitters. Her heart was beating too slowly, her palms dry, and fingers steady, with none of the charged energy needed to hone her focus onto the start.

Stepping off the damp grass onto the pavement, the bones in her knee made a familiar grind.

It hadn't taken the results of her latest MRI to know she'd fucked up, ignoring Dr. Monaghan's advice.

Patience , he'd preached. Slow and steady wins the race .

But slow and steady had never been how Dillon lived her life.

And it didn't matter now—what was done was done.

She stabbed her toe into the ground, seeking the sensation of the pain. Trying to find the ache all the handfuls of ibuprofen and expired bottles of OxyContin had been unable to hide. For the past month, it had become a hurt she had come to rely on—the defense of endorphins creating some kind of warped high.

But this morning there was nothing. All she felt was numb.

And overwhelmingly, despairingly tired.

"You're looking a little pale there, Sinclair. Come to add another loss to your collection?"

Dillon turned. It should have been Henrik; it would have been fitting. But instead, it was just that tosser, Isaac Fortin. His wife's race bag was slung over his shoulder, his shorts rolled up too high.

"I have to admit, I never thought I'd see the day when you turned up simply to be a field filler. I'm beginning to think you just like viewing that pretty little French ass from behind." He leaned closer, the smell of cheap aftershave sending Dillon's empty stomach into turmoil. "I'm right, aren't I?" His lips parted to reveal a row of too-small teeth as he ran a palm over his greased black hair. "Well, don't you worry—it'll stay our little secret. No reason you can't keep your American girl and have a sweet French bit on the side."

She should have felt angry—she was certain of it—but the effort of the emotion took energy she didn't know how to find.

Issac's eyes shifted over the top of her head as an elongated shadow darkened the grass between them. It was Kyle, the weight of his protective arm draping over her shoulders.

"Hello, Wood." Issac straightened. "You joining the women's race today?"

"Take a long walk off a short pier, ya shitlark. The volunteer tent is over by the portaloos."

Elevating his weak chin, Isaac's lips curled as he regarded Dillon down the barrel of his nose. "As I was saying, good luck, Sinclair. God knows you'll need it just to finish."

She stared through him as he walked away, finding no part of herself that cared enough to reply.

"That prick is such a waste of oxygen. He really—" Kyle paused when he saw her face. "You alright, Sinc?"

Dillon didn't know how to answer. Her mind felt caught in a riptide, her sense of reality disjointed. It was as if she were watching the world from eyes not her own. As if she were just the husk of someone else.

"Tired," she managed, realizing he was still waiting for a response. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept. The last time she'd eaten.

"I feel you, mate," he squeezed her arm, not understanding. "But we're on the home stretch now. Just stick to the plan and let Georgina carry the load." He lowered his face to hers. "You've got this, Sinc. Leeds has always been yours." His fingers pressed into the bare flesh of her arm hard enough to make her flinch. To jolt her back to the present.

"Yeah," she nodded. "I'm good."

"Okay." He straightened. "I'm going to look in on Georgina. I'll see you in a couple hours—on that podium, you hear? And then we're packing our bags for Los Angeles."

He gave her a final clap on the back, and then was off, disappearing into the throng of arriving volunteers.

Uncertain how she got there, Dillon found herself back in the transition zone, assessing her equipment. Everything was in order—her bike, her shoes, her gels and chapstick. All she had to do was step into her wetsuit. One foot, and then the other. Dump in baby powder. Zip and velcro. Pull on her swim cap.

She stared at her pile of swim gear, repeating the steps to herself over and over.

Outside the transition barrier, she could feel the cameras—the click of their lenses, the commentary of the race-day reporters. A dozen different languages clashed in high and low tones, filled with the nervous energy of her surrounding competitors.

Dillon hooked her goggles over her elbow and picked up her wetsuit.

To her right, a Spanish athlete slammed her bike into the rack after a last-minute inspection, the sharp clang of metal jarring Dillon. The neoprene slipped from her fingers.

"Lo siento," the woman apologized, offering a quick smile before spraying on her sunscreen.

Dillon couldn't bring herself to return the smile. She couldn't bring herself to do anything.

Floating through a maelstrom of unnavigable emotion, she stepped over the fallen wetsuit and picked up her backpack waiting to be delivered to the bag drop.

She couldn't do this. Not for another second. Not today. Not again. Not ever.

She flung her goggles into the nearest rubbish bin and weaved her way out of the transition zone. Away from the chaos. The mounting pressure. The anxiety. She bypassed the arrow indicating the swim start and turned onto one of the quiet trails leading away from the vortex of activity.

Sitting at the bus stop, she pulled out her mobile. She needed to text Kam. To try to explain. But what words were there to ever make her understand? To tell her how she was feeling?

Uncertain how to express herself, she finally typed:

I'm sorry. I love you.

And shut off her phone.

As she stepped onto the bus, she heard the start horn blow. Leeds was underway, with one less swimmer in the water.