He didn’t remember dropping the leather briefcase. He didn’t feel the polished stones of the terrace under his bare feet as he kicked off his shoes. All he knew—viscerally, instinctively—was that his eight-year-old son was in the deep end of the pool and the cast on his left arm was dragging him under.

The world narrowed to blue.

Blue water, too still for a child who couldn’t swim properly with one arm.

Blue sky overhead, indifferent.

Blue lips beginning to part in a silent scream as Jasper’s face slipped beneath the surface.

Only one image cut through the blue and burned itself into Elliot’s memory: Sabrina’s hands on his son’s back, pushing.

Not guiding.
Not supporting.
Shoving.

He hit the water a fraction of a second after Jasper disappeared.

The cold punched the air out of his lungs, but fear shoved it back in. His suit trousers wrapped around his legs like seaweed, but he kicked harder. Chlorine stung his eyes as he opened them underwater.

There.

A tangle of pale limbs and white fiberglass cast, sinking in slow motion.