In that split second of horror, Kelsey saw the face—the eyes—gleaming at her from the darkness—the eyes staring at her above the filthy gag, barely alive below the filthy bandage—the matted hair, the dried blood—

“Oh, God—Beth!”

Water surged in.

As Kelsey hurtled into black liquid space she felt the ocean close over her. Gagging, swallowing, she tried to surface, felt a hand clamp down on her head, pushing her under, holding her. She kicked and twisted—eyes wide with terror, but everything was black and distorted…even her cries…her pleas for mercy…

The pressure on her head let up. Bursting to the surface, she gulped once before the hand pushed her down again. She was vaguely aware of noises, muffled and very far away, and all around her the water was churning, black, black bubbles, waves knocking her helplessly back and forth…deeper…deeper…

Second chance…and even in the midst of panic she recognized the irony of it all. Saved once to drown later…

“Kelsey…”

From some dream she thought she heard her name, a blurry, garbled underwater sound—

“Kelsey…where are you—”

Cold air hit her face, shocking her—and hands, on her shoulders now—she couldn’t see the face or the eyes, but the hands were there, strong and powerful, and shoulders and a bare chest—

My God, he’s in the water with me!

A new terror seized her; she struck out and heard him curse as he wrestled her arms, her nails from his face—

“Kelsey—Kelsey!”

And she went icy all over, recognizing the voice now—that deep, emotionless voice that she had feared all along—

She had been wrong.

The murderer wasn’t Skip.

It was Neale.

“No!” she shrieked and went down, her lungs filling with water—Brookfield Murders—Brookfield Psychiatric Hospital—as Neale let go of her and twisted sharply beneath the water. Something was happening, she could sense it, even though the world was black and wavy and nothing really mattered anymore…

“Kelsey…” And the underwater voice again, Death calling for her, guiding her into the deepest, deepest darkness—

Her head broke the surface once more, as arms lifted her shoulders and someone, somewhere, was shouting, and the lantern was there, throwing sallow light across the cave…the water.

“Don’t struggle,” the voice said. “Don’t…it’ll be easier if you don’t struggle…”

And there was a roaring, filling her head, a growing surge of indistinct sound and another shout, muffled, distant…

“Don’t…struggle…”

Justin…And she could see him now, his eyes, his face, so near…his arms going around her…“Justin,” she gasped, gratefully, desperately…you’ve come to save me…to save my life…his arms around her, so strong, so determined…

His hands…around her neck…squeezing…

“Don’t struggle—”

But she was struggling…great gasps of air from lungs bursting, and that split second, that tiny instant of realization as strength gave out and water poured in, black and sickening and endless…endless…

“Don’t…” and Justin’s voice was fading, as everything was fading, as her very life was fading…ending…

And in her deep, black nightmare she knew she was dying, knew it just as surely as she knew the faraway echo of Skip shouting, and the frenzied thrashings of the ocean reluctant to give up its own…