Owen looked at him once, long and cold.
“She nearly drowned.
Stand back.”
Grant tried to move closer.
Owen blocked him with his body.
It was subtle, but I saw it: Grant’s gaze dropping to my waist for half a second, the calculation in his face, the instant of relief when he realized the pouch was still hidden, followed by fear when he understood Owen had noticed something.
The ambulance arrived within minutes.
Owen rode with us because the paramedics had seen him perform the initial rescue and because he introduced himself in the clipped, efficient tone of someone who belonged in emergencies.
On the ride to the hospital, he leaned close and said, “If you want me to secure whatever was under your dress, nod.”
I nodded.
He asked the female paramedic to help him preserve the patient’s personal effects.
Under a thermal blanket, with professional efficiency and no embarrassment, they removed the pouch and sealed it in a clear evidence bag with my consent, along with the soaked pages that had slipped from the lining of my dress.
Owen wrote the time, his name, the paramedic’s name, and mine across the label.
It was the most protected I had felt in months.
At the hospital they cut away the remains of the gown.
I had bruising on my elbow, ribs, and upper arm, a mild concussion from hitting the water hard, and aspirated enough river water to earn several miserable hours on oxygen while they monitored my lungs.
I also had lorazepam in my system.
That last part mattered.
Owen ordered the tox screen because, in his words, my speech and pupils did not match panic and cold alone.
I had only sipped one glass of champagne before leaving the bridal suite.
Grant had insisted on handing it to me himself.
