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We were going to die, down here.
JD turned to me and read what was on my face. His expression darkened, I could see him raging at himself and my stomach lurched as I realized what he was thinking. He’d failed me. That was going to be his dying thought.
No! I grabbed his shoulders, stared into his eyes. No! No, you didn’t! This isn’t your fault! My lungs felt like they were going to explode but I kept my eyes locked on his, willing him to understand. This isn’t your fault!
The flashlight on my phone finally went out and we were in pitch darkness again. I could feel my body straining to breathe and my brain going spacey from lack of oxygen. Another few seconds and I’d gulp in water and that would be it. My fingers dug deep into JD’s shoulders, trying to hold back—
And then I felt his hands on my cheeks and his lips mashed against mine, forcing them apart.
Rich, warm, life-giving air filled my lungs. My brain snapped awake as I realized what he was doing. He was bigger than me, could hold his breath longer than me. He was giving up his last seconds of life to buy me a little more time. JD! No!
He broke the kiss. I felt his shoulders tense under my hands: now he was running out of air. I threw my arms around him, pulling him close. JD!
A light lit up the car, blindingly bright. I twisted and saw a flashlight blasting through the windshield and a figure silhouetted behind it. Then something hit the center of the windshield, spider webbing it. A tire iron. Another blow and the windshield crumpled inward. Another and it broke free and floated loose. The figure reached in and grabbed my hand and I grabbed JD, and the three of us kicked and swam, out through the hole and up, up, up.
My face broke the surface and I sucked in glorious, stinking New York harbor air. A second later, JD surfaced next to me, lungs heaving. It was several seconds before we blinked the water out of our eyes, looked around and saw who’d rescued us.
“You okay?” panted Miles.
32
JD
The cops and paramedics arrived and bundled us all off to the hospital to get checked out. Lorna and I had picked up some bruises and scrapes but otherwise we were okay. Agent Callahan arrived, looking even more tousled than usual: from the look on his face, he’d been in bed when he got the call. Sitting on the edge of hospital beds, wrapped in blankets, Lorna and I gave statements. Then we all listened as Miles gave his: he’d been a few cars behind us when the killer started ramming us, and he’d followed us to the docks.
Callahan and I exchanged sheepish looks. Miles obviously wasn’t on the killer’s side. Then we looked apologetically at Lorna. Lucky for us, she was too relieved to give us a hard time about it.
But Miles picked up on all the furtive looks. “What?” he asked in that refined British accent.
Callahan quickly stood up. “I’ll give you all some space.” He left, leaving the three of us looking at each other.
I tried to figure out what to say. But Miles figured it out from our guilty faces before I could even open my mouth. “You thought it was me?!” He stared at his sister, not so much angry as wounded.
“Don’t be mad at her,” I told him. “She defended you the whole time, she wouldn’t believe it was you. This was all me and Callahan.”
“You thought I’d killed my dad? Why?!”
I sighed and looked at the ceiling. Then I laid it all out for him.
Miles hung his head. “Fuck!” It was sudden, venomous: I saw Lorna flinch.
But it wasn’t us he was mad at. We watched as all his smooth charm and confidence collapsed.
He took a breath but the words wouldn’t come. He tried again: nothing. Lorna put a hand on his arm. He finally dredged the words up and spat them out like something stinking and toxic. “I have a problem.”
“What sort of problem?” Lorna asked innocently. Miles just stared at her, humiliated and broken, and she slowly inhaled, realization hitting. “How?” she asked. “Why?”
Miles shook his head tiredly. “Gradually. I don’t know, no one plans on becoming an addict.” He sighed. “You take something to help you relax after an eighteen hour day. Then you need something to get you going the next morning. Then you need something to let you sleep.” He looked at me. “I didn’t have a stomach bug in Mexico. I was going through withdrawal because I hadn’t dared bring anything over the border. And I didn’t come on the boat because I’d been at a party the night before and I was coming down, I knew I’d throw up if I went out on the waves.”
