“Holy fuck,” I whisper when I seeit.
Face down, there’s a body in the water.
Heart pounding, I rush over to him. It’s instinct to grab the lifesaver on the way and to toss it beside him, but he doesn’t move.
Rationally, I know the person’s dead.
But I still grab my skirts, hike them up, and dart to the side where the body’s floating.
I hate to do it, but there’s no way I’m touching the…
I can’t think “corpse.”
I can’t.
Not when I’ve come across a body twice now.
Thankful for my gloves, I manage to drag the person over without getting myself entirely drenched.
The second his face is revealed to me, I almost let go.
Harrington.
I should have known.
I’m almost mad at myself for thinking there’d be no repercussions—talk about naïve.
His sightless gaze stares straight into my soul, but I force my emotions aside. This is bigger than coming face-to-face with my crimes.
Even though I know the body isn’t fresh, he doesn’t seem to be…
I gag.
Rotting.
There’s no “corpse” smell. Nothing to indicate that he didn’t fall in the water after one too many drinks, nobody noticed, and he just drowned.
Hell, I can smell his aftershave.
He’s wearing a tuxedo, for Christ’s sake.
His shirt collar hides the fact his throat was cut—he’s pristine.
It’s insane.
As soon as I let him go, his body tumbles over, hiding his expression.
“What the fuck is happening?” I moan noiselessly.
I want to panic.
I want to call Maxim.
I want him to fix this for me.
And if Maxim doesn’t answer, then Brennan.
But I can do none of those things.
