Page 110 of Head Under Water

His fist connects with my face once, twice.

My ears ring.

Margie’s face flashes in my mind. Ruth’s. Mom’s. Will’s.

I don’t stop fighting, not for a second.

I twist and warp my body, screaming for anyone—no one—to hear me. I claw his face, his neck, his eyes.

He roars at me, clamping down with his teeth over the tender flesh of my breast. Pain cracks through me, bright and nauseating.

I twist and jerk my knee between his legs again.

This time, he hardly seems to feel it, too fueled by adrenaline. I try to slip out from under him, but I can’t move.

I grab hold of the barstool next to the island and bring it down over top of us. It strikes the back of his head.

He falters, stunned, and I shove him off me, scrambling out from under him and to the front door.

He grabs my ankle, and I fall, face-first. Pain ricochets through me, white-hot lightning bolts in every direction. Everything hurts. Everything screams. I can’t focus on any one thing, just the overwhelming waves crashing into me, pain so sharp I’m dizzy.

I close my eyes, thinking. Thinking.

I have to move. I have to do something.

In front of me, the door swings open. Impossible, but true.

I know those shoes.

I love those shoes.

“Opal?”

Will.

Warmth washes over me like a tide at the sound of his voice.

Behind me, Banks freezes. For a millisecond, no one moves.

I drag my gaze up, and Will is taking in the scene. The water everywhere. My bloody face. My bruised body. Banks.

His face is unreadable, as though his thoughts are warring within him.

For a heartbeat, I’m not sure what he’ll do. And then something shifts within him. Everything shifts within him.

He crosses the room in two strides and lifts Banks from the floor without effort. He slams him into the wall, his body rigid, face cold. The last remaining picture frame shatters behind Banks’s head.

“What the fuck did you do to her?” Will roars from somewhere deep in his chest.

Banks swings, and his fist catches Will’s cheek. I scream.

No.

Will staggers but doesn’t fall. He doesn’t even release Banks’s shirt. I force myself to stand. To help. I tear open the closet by the front door and grab Will’s hoodie. My legs tremble underneath me as I throw it over myself and snatch the baseball bat waiting inside.

“Will, he attacked Margie. It was him,” I tell him, my hands shaking.

“I know,” Will says through gritted teeth without looking back. “His dad found out what he was planning. He called your mom. It’s the only reason I made it in—” He can’t seem to finish the sentence. His rage takes over, and he slams Banks into the wall again. “Your own dad turned you in. How does that feel?”