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The fall seemed to last a lifetime.
Then with a splash, the icy river claimed them.
*****
1:59 P.M.
Michael knew it was going to happen a split second before Dante jumped off the bridge taking Samara along with him.
The ground seemed to turn into quicksand.
He tried to get to Samara, but he couldn’t move.
Instead, he was forced to watch everything play out in excruciatingly slow motion.
While Dante’s face was full of peaceful conviction, Samara’s was full of panic.
Her eyes met his.
They broadcast a mixture of terror, love, and resignation.
She believed that she was falling to her death.
As she toppled over and disappeared, he feared she was too.
Then like someone snapped their fingers, time sped up and he was running to the spot Samara had fallen. He reached it in time to see the splash as she and Dante hit the river.
“Don’t.”
Hands curled into his jacket and yanked him back.
“Get off me,” he screamed.
“We’ll drive down to the bottom of the hill and go into the river that way. To jump is suicide,” Brady told him, trying to drag him away from the edge of the bridge.
“If we do that it’ll take too long.” If he jumped, he’d landapproximately where Samara had. If they took the time to get back in the car, drive down, then swim out it would take so much longer. He’d have to search the water, and by the time he found her, it could be too late.
“It’s suicide to jump,” Brady said still trying to drag him away.
“I don’t care.” Without Samara what did he have to live for? A long slow self-inflicted death from killing his body with alcohol, that was it.
At least this would be quick.
Michael wrenched himself from his boss’ grip and launched over the edge.
He didn't like heights, and he didn't like rollercoasters, and plummeting from the bridge to the river below felt like riding the world’s highest rollercoaster.
He landed with a crash.
The cold momentarily stole his breath and then before he could properly fill his lungs with air he was under the water.
The force of the jump sent him down through the water, deeper and deeper until the light of the day disappeared, and all he was surrounded by was dark, cold water.
His lungs screamed for air, but instead of kicking his feet and trying to swim back up to the surface, he began to search.
She had to be here somewhere.
Only a minute, two at most, had passed since Dante tried to kill himself and Samara, and Samara was a good swimmer. He knew that because their gym had a pool they would sometimes swim laps instead of lifting weights and running on the treadmills, and she would outswim him every time.
