Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Amalphia?” My voice bounces off the walls.
Not a band but a choir. That’s who will appreciate the sound in here. Chamber choir? Ooh, definitely.
I walk up the stairs, check out every room, then come back down.
I trace a path through the living room, the dining area, the hall, past the home gym and through guest rooms one and two out of six and several useless rooms that I call my office, and end up in the kitchen. Still nothing and no one, but the place is spotless. Even more so than when I left it.
I haven’t had a housekeeper for a month and a half, but you wouldn’t have been able to tell. Unless you go, predictably, down to the basement.
There’s a strange transitional part of the house that is all glass and fancy chairs. I suppose some would call it a sunroom. It opens out to the pool, sauna, hot tub, and the palatial backyard.
I pull open the sliding glass and step out. People think it doesn’t get hot in Pittsburgh, and sure, it might not get hot the way it does in some states, but let me tell you, as someone who is in the air conditioning business and as a human with a healthily functioning internal thermometer, it does.
It’s not hot enough to make eggs and bacon on the concrete, but the instant sticky humidity and glaring sun make me glad I didn’t remove my high-tops when I came in. Yes, it’s like I’m twelve. And no, I don’t actually like them, but knowing my parents absolutely can’t stand it when I wear them or the shitkicker boots I own, I alternated between the two all week. Even when we went out to dinner, I donned the same T-shirts and jeans that I’d filled my bag with. I conveniently forgot to throw in formal attire, just like last year and the year before and the year before that.
I narrow my eyes, shading them against the sun. But they start to water anyway, especially when I sweep them over the pool and get a whole lot of scalding reflection.
The pool is unimaginative. Just a long rectangle, like the rest of the house.
It takes me point seven of a second to realize something isn’t right.
There’s an object at the bottom of the pool that shouldn’t be there.
A human object.
Holy frigid refrigerators!
My gut turns to ice, my skin breaks out in a clammy sweat, and my chest caves in on itself. My whole body feels like it’s been ripped apart at the shock, but I force my limbs into action.
The object is around straight dead in the middle. I take a running leap and plunge in headfirst, shoes, clothes, and all. Considering the pool comes with the house in a token posh move, I’m a good swimmer. It’s an activity I actually enjoy, and the pool gets used regularly.
I kick hard, spearing through the water and forcing my way down to the bottom. It’s a saltwater pool, and I usually never go under without goggles.
The person’s hair waves in the water, dark curls obscuring her face. There are no air bubbles.
Oh god. Oh fuck, no.
I swim like my life depends on it, even though it doesn’t. Hers does. Amalphia. How am I supposed to explain this to her family? Christ, what is she doing out here in the pool, alone? Why is she at the bottom and not floating on the top?
I kick frantically, dragging myself through the water until I’m almost right on top of her. I wrap both my hands around her arms, which are at her sides, grasping her shoulder and hip.
The water explodes in a burst of bubbles, and her eyes fly open. She thrashes wildly, kicking and panicking. I have no idea how to process what in the actual fuck is going on. This is sci-fi-level shit, and I’m unprepared for it. I push off the bottom of the pool and propel us straight to the surface.
We break through, both of us gasping and spluttering. My nose and eyes are on fire, my lungs and throat giving me a warning that I might retch up whatever I swallowed on the swim slash fight scene to the surface.
“What the hell?” Amalphia choke-screams. Water pours from her hair, her lashes, and her mouth. She shakes herself off like a wet dog, her curls slapping me on the cheeks and forehead.
“What the hell me?” I splash away, hacking and coughing until I reach the edge of the pool. I swipe my burning eyes and suck in a breath that doesn’t contain saltwater. “You were at the bottom of the pool! I thought you’d drowned!”
“I was practicing holding my breath. I’m up to almost five minutes.”
“That’s not…that’s not safe,” I murmur. “That could give you brain damage.”
“Thanks,” she throws back dryly before swimming over to the edge of the pool. She pulls herself out with ease and gets to her feet.