It was pretty damn high. If that person had survived the bullet, there was only a slim chance he or she would still be alive after diving from such a height. The impact alone would crush that person’s lungs the moment the body hit the water.
Did people float after they plunge into a river? Like dead bodies on TV?
Bea got restless.
She should call nine-one-one and report what she’d seen.
Like, now.
There was no way…
Her breath stalled in her throat.
Holy shit.
She narrowed her eyes. At first, it was rather hard to spot, but it was there. A body slowly drifted along the current. The man was wearing dark clothes. Suit. Dark hair. His face was obscured by the water. Would he still be alive? Or was he dead already?
Her stomach lurched at her thought of touching a dead body.
But there was a chance he could still be saved.
Shit. What the hell…
Bea ditched her flip-flops and tiptoed into the water. She shivered. It was freaking cold. She crushed the last wave of hesitance and finally decided to swim silently into the river. Luckily, she was a pretty decent swimmer. She’d been part of the swimming team when she was in high school. A few dozen strokes and Bea was able to snatch the man’s collar. She pedalled back towards the bank. The man weighed a ton. Chills seeped into her bones. By the time she had reached the river bank, she felt as if she had competed for a marathon. Her lungs were burning.
Bea panted. She inspected the man.
He wasn’t breathing.
Damn. She didn’t know how to perform CPR. But she’d seen people do it on TV. Pump the chest. Pinch his nose and give him mouth-to-mouth.
Oh, man. Mouth-to-mouth on a stranger?
Bea cleared some stray hair from the man’s face. Her heart stopped beating for a second.
Christ on Crackers.
Mr Larousse? Mr Alexandre Larousse?
“Oh, no,” she muttered. She tried to wake him. There was no mistake. It was really him. Her boss. Her hot boss. The man she had been secretly fantasising over since she had started working for the firm. What were the odds of meeting him like this? Or under these circumstances?
For a moment, Bea didn’t know what she should do.
Oh, yeah. CPR. Pump his chest.
Bea put her palms on Alex’s chest. One. Two. Three. She pinched his nose and plastered her mouth on his, blowing as much air as she could manage into his lungs. It didn’t work. Bea tried to pump his chest again then repeated the process.
Under the moonlight, Alex’s handsome face looked frighteningly pale. Not good. Her gaze skated down. Her wet hands felt oddly sticky. Blood. Alex had been shot. On his upper chest. Bea frantically yanked off his tie and opened the front of his jacket suit and shirt. God, no. The entrance wound welled with blood.
She should call nine-one-one. Her cell was in the van.
But he wasn’t breathing.
CPR first, then call for help, she reasoned. Right.
Again, Bea pumped his chest, pinched his nose and gave him mouth-to-mouth. Alex still didn’t respond. Bea did it over and over until a deep exasperation convinced her that Alex was beyond help. He was dead. The jarred thought scared the shit out of her. He couldn’t die. He couldn’t! He hadn’t been her boss for even a month. It wasn’t fair.
Wake up, you bastard! Bea pounded his chest with her fist. You ignore me at work and now you ignore me when I try to save your life? Wake up, damn it! Breathe!