The Edge of the World

Chapter Three

He dreamed he was flying, soaring languidly through the early morning sky. He laid on his back, as if lounging on a mattress, surrounded by the smells of rain, wet flora, and something sweet, like jasmine. The air was frigid at first, his body stiffening, but as the seconds ticked by, the sun peeked over the clouds in the distance and his flesh warmed. Omnipresent whispers spoke to him, encouraging him to awaken. He shook his head in defiance. He didn't want to open his eyes. Fuck waking up! He'd rather fly in the tranquil blue skies than deal with life.

But the whispers were incessant, battering through his calm, and he started falling, heading towards death. The world shifted, and a woman's face appeared through the dreamy haze. Coffee brown hair hung in her face, and the palest blue eyes shimmering with concern held his gaze. She was familiar to him. Where did he recognize her from, and why was she above him?

Reality came crashing down, shattering the dream-turned-nightmare. He was floating in the water, wearing only his boxer briefs. The cloudy skies above, along with the thick fog, were dizzying, making it impossible to tell which direction was really up.

Memories surfaced, and he recognized that the woman was the killer from the plane! She, too, wore only her undergarments as she stood hip deep in the clear water, keeping his body afloat. Fear jolted him, drawing forth his need to distance himself from her, and this confusing situation.

"What the hell..." he shouted, shoving away from her. Once he got his footing, he leveled an accusing stare on the woman.

"What are you doing?"

Her lids lowered a little as her concerned expression turned to stone. Whatever emotions she showed before were gone, and only cold aloofness remained as she turned away and headed towards the shore. Ian took in her captivating body, lean lines and pale skin covered in chills, scars, and tattoos all the while trying to keep from finding pleasure in her raw appearance.

Realizing he was staring at her black bra which strained across her full breasts, he turned his back to her, remembering his manners. Why the hell was he ogling a murder?

Get your shit together, Ian, he told himself. Her monotone response pulled him from his sexual stupor and slammed him into a realm of disbelief.

"I was helping you. You had a concussion and I'm no doctor, but I'm sure you were pretty close to death."

"So, your answer was to dunk me in a lake?"

He glanced at her from over his shoulder, the warm water rippling over his stomach. She was tugging a black sweater over her upper body, yanking it down before grabbing her boots. With a set jaw, she answered tersely.

"Yeah. I guess you could say that."

"You're crazy," he decided aloud, facing her once more.

She tied her boots before lifting her eyes to peer at him from beneath her lashes.

"Probably. But crazy or not, you're alive, aren't you?"

"For all I know, you brought me here to drown me while I was too weak to stop you. You're the killer, right?"

She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Don't be stupid, doc. I have a gun. Why would I waste energy drowning you when I could have spared us both the time and effort and just shot you?"

He supposed she was right, but he'd be damned before caving so fast.

"Maybe it's your thing? Your MO."

She eyed him for so long that he shifted in discomfort. Finally, she spoke again in a voice so soft he had to strain to hear.

"I don't have an MO, although I am a killer. Lucky for you, I'm also a fucking humanitarian. I didn't know what wounds you sustained along with the ding on your thick dome. And there's something about this lake. It heals, somehow. Trust me when I say you were almost dead."