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“Fuck!” David speeds up even more, veering onto a winding road. Faster and faster he goes, coming dangerously close to the metal guardrail. He gazes at the rearview mirror again. “Fuck!”
Behind us, one of the motorcycles and another vehicle I hadn’t seen before are now in pursuit. At least, I think they are until the person on the bike spins in his seat and fires off a few rounds into the other car.
“Who are those people?” I demand.
David slams his palms against the steering wheel and whines, “This wasn’t part of the plan. Shit, this isn’t how it was supposed to go.”
“What plan?”
“Fuck the plan.” Mom takes the Glock 19 she always carries from her clutch and aims the barrel at David. “Pull the fuck over.”
He glances behind us, fear evident in his eyes. “You don’t understand. They’re not supposed to be here. I don’t know who that is.”
“I said pull the fuck over.” She cocks the hammer, the click his final warning.
But he doesn’t heed it, too focused on the people following us. Up ahead, the road narrows as we approach a bridge over the river. There’s a huge sign that readsCaution. Uneven Surface Ahead. We’re going too fast, much too fast.
My mother sees it as well, and in what I know is a last-ditch effort to save us, she shoots. David slumps forward, but his foot remains on the accelerator and we hit that uneven surface at such a high speed, it sounds like the tires have popped.
Mom throws her arm over my chest in a pointless move to keep me safe as the car fishtails, then goes into an outright spin before bursting through the bridge’s rail.
If I were better at physics, I could probably tell you why time slows down to a crawl as we go over that bridge. How I’m able to perceive every event that happens in every second as we fall —my mother’s head thrown against the window, knocking her unconscious instantly, my scream, and the stiffening of every muscle as I brace for impact.
I might also be able to explain why hitting the surface of the lake is like crashing into a brick wall or why the car bobs for only a moment before the rear lifts up and flips end over end so that my world is turned upside down.
Seconds. I spend precious seconds gulping air, trying to gather my wits. I’ve heard of people trapped in sinking cars dying because they spend those precious few seconds it actually takes for a car to start going down panicking. I can see why. Hanging upside down, hearing the Rolls-Royce cracking as it bobs on the surface is fucking terrifying.
A scream lodges in my throat and all I want to do is cry out for help.
Get your shit together, Louisa. Think. Calm down. It will remain on the surface for a moment.
“Mom? Mom!” I grab one of her hands that are hanging above her head. She doesn’t rouse.
Act quickly.
Placing one palm on the ceiling to minimize the impact of the fall, I unbuckle my seatbelt. I slip out of the seat and land in a mass of white and tulle. I throw the stuff out of my face, all the while regretting this dress more and more. Next, I work on releasing my mother, ignoring the fact that the light coming through the windows is dimming, a sign that we’re starting to descend deeper into the water.
Placing myself under her, I release her belt and ease her out of the seat. Then I reach for the gun still in her hand and aim it toward the window. I wrap my arm around her waist and bring her against me tightly.
“God protect us,” I whisper and shoot.
The shattering of glass is drowned out by the sound of the river rushing in. I lift my face to the pocket of air above me and suck in a breath, mentally preparing myself for my next move.
Then the pocket of air is gone, and I’m completely engulfed by the echoing hollow of the water.
It’s harder than I anticipated for me to maneuver to my exit. And to my horror, it’s impossible to push myself out.
The dress. I didn’t consider the weight of my dress! It’s so heavy, it might as well be made of cement. Not even the strongest man could swim out in this.
Desperately, I reach behind me, trying to get to the hundred tiny buttons the designer insisted would be the perfect touch. My lungs begin to burn as I strain to undo them, urging me to take a breath. Just one little breath.
Four buttons in, I start to tear at them. But it’s even less effective.
Shit! Seconds are passing and with each one, our chances of survival diminish. I glance at my mom, at her face, so beautiful even in this watery grave. It might be my end, but I won’t let it be hers.
With newfound strength, I position her at the window and shove with all my might, sending a prayer that she’ll rise to the surface and someone will spot her.
She does. Slowly and as graceful as always. I watch her elegant form silhouetted by the light above, thankful that she wore that pantsuit and not a gown.
