“She’s alive.” My tone is soft and reassuring. Linda needs to hear those words. “She’s fighting. That’s all that matters right now.”
We turn the corner into the quieter ICU hallway. The team is clustered near the waiting area. They see us and go silent. Their faces all painted with worry. Paige gives me a tight, supportive nod.
We are ten feet from Violet’s door when I hear it.
A voice, slurred, but unmistakable. “Don’t wantanother blanket. Scratchy. This thing in my nose. Take it out.”
My heart stops dead in my chest, and Linda freezes beside me.
A nurse’s calm, professional reply filters through the door. “Ms. Lockwood, you need the oxygen. Your levels are still low, and the blanket is keeping you warm.”
“I’m notcold. Where’s my phone? I need my mom. I need Skye. I have to tell her something.”
I move before I know it, pushing the door open.
Violet is propped up, the ventilator tube gone, replaced with a simple nasal cannula. Her skin is still too pale, and the dark circles under her eyes look likebruises. But those eyes are open, blinking slowly and unfocused. Most likely swimming with morphine and confusion, but they’re open. She’s weakly batting at the nurse's hand, which is trying to keep the blanket tucked underneath her.
She turns her head toward the sound of the door, and her gaze slips past me, landing on her mom.
For a second, there is no recognition. Just a doped-up, cross-eyed stare.
Then, her brow furrows and her lips tremble. “Mom?” Her voice is small, cracked, a childlike sound. “You’re… you’re really far away. Did you get smaller?”
Linda lets out a sob that’s a half-laugh, half pure relief. She surges forward, gently but firmly bypassing the nurse, and gathers Violet in her hands.
“Oh, baby. Oh, my sweet, impossible girl.”
Violet blinks up at her, then her hazy gaze drifts past her mom and finds me. The confusion hasn’t cleared, but something sharpens. A memory, fighting its way through the chemical fog.
“Skye,” she mumbles, her voice thick. She tries to lift a hand, weighted down by the IV. “My collar. The water was cold.” Her eyes start to drift shut again, then flutter open with effort. “Don’t be mad. S’not my fault.”
I can’t speak. The vise that has been crushing my chest for hours shatters. I take a step closer, my own breath coming unevenly. The nurse, seeing the moment, gives a soft smile and slips out of the room.
Linda is crying quietly, stroking Violet’s hair, whispering endearments.
Violet’s eyes find and hold mine, glazed over but present. “You came and got me,” she whispers, as if confirming a dream. Then, her eyes grow heavy. “S’good. Knew you would.” Her breathing deepens, evening out into natural sleep.
I stand there, the roar of the water finally receding, replaced by the soft sound of a mother’s tears, and the steady, strong beep of a living heart.
Chapter Thirty-One
Violet
Five days.
The bruises have faded from violent purple to a sickly yellow-green, mapped across my ribs and hips. The ache in my lungs is subtle, but there, a reminder with every breath. The cold from the canal seems to have reached my marrow.
But I’m walking and breathing on my own. And I’m here.
Cassie, her wrist in a stylish blue brace that matches her honorary Team USA jacket from Paige and Rissa, is fussing over me backstage. “Just remember, Vi. It’s not just you up there. It’s all of us. The whole country. Don’t… you know. Don’t let the pitch drop on ‘free’.”
She means it as a joke, but the pressure behind her eyes is real.
We don’t talk about the van, the warehouse, or the water. We talk about breath control and camera angles.
It’s just easier that way.
My mind drifts back to two days prior. Back to the gold medal game.
