Page 150 of Pull Me Under

‘But—’

‘We’ve got him.’ She’s already moving, helping load him into the helicopter. ‘Drive safe. He’ll need you when you get there.’

The rotors spin up. The helicopter lifts, tilts, disappears over the rooftops.

And I’m left standing on the dock, watching it go.

The drive to Truro takes over an hour.

Over an hour of winding coastal roads and tourist traffic and my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ache. Over an hour of not knowing. Of replaying the morning – his grey face, his trembling hands, the way I walked away instead of making him sit down.

I should have pushed harder.

I shouldn’t have left.

Brynn’s in the passenger seat before I can tell her not to come.

‘Drive,’ she says. ‘I’ll navigate.’

I don’t argue. Don’t have the words for it. Just pull out of the harbour car park too fast, tyres spitting gravel, and point us toward Truro.

The roads out of Sea Salt Bay are narrow. Single track in places, high hedgerows blocking the view, the kind of roads where you pray nothing is coming the other way. I take them faster than I should. Brynn doesn’t tell me to slow down.

Her hand finds mine on the gear stick. She doesn’t say anything. Just holds on.

The silence stretches between us, filled with engine noise and my own ragged breathing. I keep seeing him on the ground. Eyes open, staring at nothing. The way his chest rose and fell, shallow and wrong.

I should have made him sit down this morning. Should have called someone. Should have done anything other than walk away.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Brynn says quietly.

I don’t answer. Can’t.

The A-road opens up and I floor it, watching the speedometer climb. Seventy. Eighty. The hedgerows blur into green streaks.

‘Jude.’

Eighty-five.

‘Jude, you can’t help him if you’re dead.’

I ease off. Slightly. My jaw aches from clenching.

Brynn’s thumb strokes across my knuckles. Back and forth. A steady rhythm that doesn’t match my heartbeat but somehow helps anyway.

We pass through villages I don’t register. Past fields and farmhouses and a tractor that makes me brake so hard Brynn’s hand flies to the dashboard. I swear under my breath, pull around it, accelerate again.

‘Twenty minutes,’ Brynn says, checking her phone. ‘Maybe less.’

Twenty minutes. The helicopter would have had him there in twelve. He’s probably already being seen, already hooked up to machines, already⁠—

Don’t think about it.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder. Kit’s name on the screen.

‘Can you—’ My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. ‘Can you put it on speaker?’

Brynn does.