intended. She pulled up, her harness squeezing tight around her hips. She came to a halt a few feet above a large boulder.
She hated thinking about that first day—hated it because the memory invariably led to more memories followed by traitorous thoughts.
If she hadn't met Sam, then she might have met someone else, and they would still be alive, and if they were alive, then so would Josh still be alive, only he wouldn't be Josh because Sam wasn't his father, but she would at least have one of them...
She leaned back on her rope, squinted at the bright sunshine and cursed herself for forgetting her sunglasses. Blinking back tears, she lowered herself to a standing position on the partially submerged rock. Water lapped at her boots, trying to undermine her footing.
A fall here would leave someone beat up pretty good.
Wasn't that what she'd already done? She'd fallen in love and gotten beat up for it. Battered, bruised, broken.
The words came in a staccato that swirled through her, echoing with the pulse pounding in her temples. Sam would have made a song out of it. Not a funny song or a joke like so many of his songs were.
A ballad, a dirge. A sad, sad song. One that would coax tears from the hardest of hearts.
She blinked rapidly, told herself it was the sun reflecting from the wet mirror-like granite. She reached for the shiny white lengths of bone visible above the water.
No. She yanked her hand away. Photos first. Document the scene .
Everything looked more distant, impersonal through the camera's viewfinder. Like maybe this wasn't really happening, like maybe it wasn't really Sam and if it wasn't really Sam, then maybe Josh wasn't really—
Her foot slid out from under her. She flung her weight to the opposite side before she could impale herself on the tangled tree branches jutting up against the rock. Branches the size of her wrist.
Pay attention . As she caught her breath, her pulse racing after the near-miss, she sat back and double-checked the photos on the digital screen. A few were blurry—from water spraying up from the rapids a few feet away or from her body shaking? Didn't matter, enough were clear.
With trembling hands, she put the camera away. Then she reached for the bones.
Radius and ulna, she remembered her anatomy. Gently she disentangled a layer of dead leaves and debris to unveil the remnants of three fingers and the bones connecting them to the forearm. They stretched out, now unveiled on a mat of dead hemlock, pointing, accusing her.
Her breath drew shallow as if there wasn't enough air. Despite the ozone charge of the fast-flowing water spraying around her.
It was a man's right hand. Sam always wore his watch on the left. Didn't he?
Or was she merely trying to talk herself into that?
She took more photos. Up close there were tiny teeth marks on the bones. Gingerly she moved the large, interwoven mat of debris from the other end of the arm.
A man's head, grotesque, swollen, yellow, bobbed up from the water, breaking the surface, its mouth open in a gaping grimace.
Sarah slipped. Skittering back along the boulder, unable to regain her balance, her feet flew out from under her. Dead leaves and twigs scattered through the air. She slammed back against the rock face, cracking her head. One foot slid into the water, into the grasp of slimy, decomposed vegetation that tried to suck her down.
Her rope stopped her from tumbling completely into the water where she'd be at the mercy of the current. She lay there, her left leg bent against the boulder, her right one immersed up to her knee, cold water surging in to fill her boot, her head throbbing, her vision flickering with bright lights. At first she couldn't breathe, it was as if all the air had been sucked out and her lungs collapsed.
She made an effort and drew a deep, long draught of sparkling crisp air that burned her lungs. The muscles along her right chest wall voiced their protest and she knew she'd find bruises there by morning.
She hated thinking about that first day—hated it because the memory invariably led to more memories followed by traitorous thoughts.
If she hadn't met Sam, then she might have met someone else, and they would still be alive, and if they were alive, then so would Josh still be alive, only he wouldn't be Josh because Sam wasn't his father, but she would at least have one of them...
She leaned back on her rope, squinted at the bright sunshine and cursed herself for forgetting her sunglasses. Blinking back tears, she lowered herself to a standing position on the partially submerged rock. Water lapped at her boots, trying to undermine her footing.
A fall here would leave someone beat up pretty good.
Wasn't that what she'd already done? She'd fallen in love and gotten beat up for it. Battered, bruised, broken.
The words came in a staccato that swirled through her, echoing with the pulse pounding in her temples. Sam would have made a song out of it. Not a funny song or a joke like so many of his songs were.
A ballad, a dirge. A sad, sad song. One that would coax tears from the hardest of hearts.
She blinked rapidly, told herself it was the sun reflecting from the wet mirror-like granite. She reached for the shiny white lengths of bone visible above the water.
No. She yanked her hand away. Photos first. Document the scene .
Everything looked more distant, impersonal through the camera's viewfinder. Like maybe this wasn't really happening, like maybe it wasn't really Sam and if it wasn't really Sam, then maybe Josh wasn't really—
Her foot slid out from under her. She flung her weight to the opposite side before she could impale herself on the tangled tree branches jutting up against the rock. Branches the size of her wrist.
Pay attention . As she caught her breath, her pulse racing after the near-miss, she sat back and double-checked the photos on the digital screen. A few were blurry—from water spraying up from the rapids a few feet away or from her body shaking? Didn't matter, enough were clear.
With trembling hands, she put the camera away. Then she reached for the bones.
Radius and ulna, she remembered her anatomy. Gently she disentangled a layer of dead leaves and debris to unveil the remnants of three fingers and the bones connecting them to the forearm. They stretched out, now unveiled on a mat of dead hemlock, pointing, accusing her.
Her breath drew shallow as if there wasn't enough air. Despite the ozone charge of the fast-flowing water spraying around her.
It was a man's right hand. Sam always wore his watch on the left. Didn't he?
Or was she merely trying to talk herself into that?
She took more photos. Up close there were tiny teeth marks on the bones. Gingerly she moved the large, interwoven mat of debris from the other end of the arm.
A man's head, grotesque, swollen, yellow, bobbed up from the water, breaking the surface, its mouth open in a gaping grimace.
Sarah slipped. Skittering back along the boulder, unable to regain her balance, her feet flew out from under her. Dead leaves and twigs scattered through the air. She slammed back against the rock face, cracking her head. One foot slid into the water, into the grasp of slimy, decomposed vegetation that tried to suck her down.
Her rope stopped her from tumbling completely into the water where she'd be at the mercy of the current. She lay there, her left leg bent against the boulder, her right one immersed up to her knee, cold water surging in to fill her boot, her head throbbing, her vision flickering with bright lights. At first she couldn't breathe, it was as if all the air had been sucked out and her lungs collapsed.
She made an effort and drew a deep, long draught of sparkling crisp air that burned her lungs. The muscles along her right chest wall voiced their protest and she knew she'd find bruises there by morning.
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