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I didn’t kill Lucy.
I flip down the toilet seat and step on top of it, praying it will hold. And before I can think about what I’m doing, I throw all my weight into my elbow as it connects with the glass in the window. It doesn’t budge, and I propel backward, pain coursing up my arm.
The memory of Robin urging me on in that faded home video of us running behind our mother at the beach comes rushing back to me. “You’re my big sister. You can do anything.”
I ignore the pain and pull my elbow back again, my fingerscoiled around themselves, nails digging into my palm. And I throw all the force I have against that window.
This time, the impact is immediate.
Shards fly around me, and I instinctively squeeze my eyes shut. Splinters of glass land on my face and naked arms, and when I finally open my eyes, slivers fall from my eyelashes. I shift the bundled T-shirt around my hand and run it around the border of the window, trying to clear as much glass as I can.
This is it.
The toilet teeters under my weight, but I have no choice. My fingers grip the sides of the window, and the remaining shards clinging to the windowpane dig into the flesh on my palms. I begin to hoist myself up with my biceps, thankful for the days I’ve spent hauling tanks from the dive shop to the pool.
And then I realize just how quiet it’s been. I haven’t heard anything from Greta in nearly a minute.
As if on cue, a crack echoes throughout the bathroom. I’m perched on the edge of the window like a gymnast preparing to start her uneven bars routine, but I steal a glance back toward the door. A slice runs through the middle of it, broken wood splintering from each side.
And then the sound comes again. This time, the gap appears almost directly next to the first slice, creating a wider hole. I notice a flash of metal before it retreats. A knife, inches away from my calf.
Greta is cutting through the door.
I’m only halfway out of the window, trying to ignore the shards of glass digging into my torso, when she gets in.
I don’t dare turn around. Even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to position myself to see. Instead, I shoot my leg back.
It meets only air. I swear under my breath, clawing my fingernails into the windowpane to try to steady myself when I hear the clatter of metal on tile. My kick didn’t connect, but it must have surprised Greta enough to make her drop the knife.
My relief doesn’t last long.
Almost immediately, her hands are around my ankle. And Greta yanks. The force pulls me back, and the shards scrape against my stomach, digging deeper into my flesh.
She pulls again.
I’m not getting out of here. I’m hurt. Bleeding. Lying on broken glass halfway out of a window positioned a meter or so off the ground.
And then I think of Lucy. Abandoned at the bottom of the ocean. And Jacinta, her body broken on those rocks beneath Khrum Yai. And Daniel, his throat slit, never able to make another joke again.
And of course, I think of Robin on that hotel bed.
And I kick again. For them. For me.
This time, I hear a crunch as my foot connects with Greta’s face, followed by a small yelp. Her hands are no longer on my ankle.
I take advantage and continue scrambling. The glass cuts through my torso, then my hips, and finally down my upper thighs.
And then I’m free. Falling, tumbling to the ground.
I crash onto the pavement with a sickening crunch.
I lie still for a minute, gauging the extent of my injuries. I try repositioning myself, and red-hot pain sears through my shin. Several deep gashes trail up my thigh, courtesy of the glass left along the window’s edges. I watch, stunned, as the pavement around meturns a dark red. Quickly, far too quickly. But as soon as it appears, the rain sends it rushing down the street. I should wrap something around my leg to stop the bleeding, but there’s no time.
I need to get up. I need to move.
It won’t take Greta long to recover. And she can make it from the bathroom to the road outside her door in a matter of seconds. I crane my neck both ways. It’s hard to tell with the constant stream of water, but it doesn’t look like there’s anyone else out here. Which means no witnesses.
The thought alone is enough to get me up. Every movement feels as though I’m being sliced, pulled apart at the seams, but I move anyway. After what feels like an eternity, I’m upright. Just in time to hear a noise. Something slamming open.
