When I turned toward the pool, two middle-aged female guests were already standing at the edge, their attention locked onto the water below. Hayley was there—struggling, flailing just enough to look helpless, her body breaking the surface in uneven, panicked movements.
Her voice came weak and broken. "H-help… I can't swim…"
The sound carried perfectly.
Too perfectly.
One of the guests snapped her gaze to me instantly, her expression sharp with accusation. "You pushed her in?" she demanded, voice rising with immediate judgment. "How could you do something like that at Old Madam Presgrave's gathering! Get in there and save her!"
My instincts went still.
Not calm—still. That dangerous kind of stillness that came right before recognition.
A trap.
