I surfaced behind the wooden skirting of the dock, hidden from the world above. My lungs burned, but I forced my breathing into a shallow rhythm. I heard them talking, their voices low and urgent.

“She sank fast,” Milo said.
“The camera won’t see anything,” Grant assured him. “It’s done.”
“Let’s go,” my daughter, Wendy, whispered.

My own daughter. Silent until now. Silence had become her specialty, her shield, and ultimately, her cowardice. She hadn’t pushed the chair, but she hadn’t held it back, either.

Camera.

My hand froze against the slick wood. Grant was arrogant, but he was lazy. He hadn’t bothered to look behind himself. He never looked at things that didn’t serve his immediate desires. The security light blinked faintly near the boathouse, a steady red pulse in the twilight. I remembered what they didn’t: the marina had installed a new surveillance system last spring—wide-angle, motion-activated, recording constantly on weekends.

They didn’t know that. But I did.

By the time the sound of their car engine faded into the distance, convinced they had solved all their financial troubles in one afternoon, I had already mapped out my path to the shore. The water numbed my arms, my legs, even my jaw. But I kept moving, inch by painful inch, until I felt mud under my palms. I dragged my body forward, collapsing onto the grassy bank.