"'I was northbound on I-71 approximately six vehicle lengths behind a tan Buick when I observed the vehicle ahead of the Buick leave the ramp. The Buick stopped. When I arrived at the top of the embankment I observed a female subject in a long tan-colored coat standing in the pond at chest depth at the driver's side of the submerged vehicle. I called 911. The female subject broke the driver's window and removed the driver from the vehicle through the window and brought her to the bank. When I reached the bottom she was striking the driver on the back and the driver began to breathe. I gave the driver my coat and held her until EMS arrived. The female subject told me to keep her warm. She was bleeding from both hands. She left the scene on foot up the embankment before I could get her name. I did not enter the water except at the edge.'" Talia's voice gave out. She looked at the bottom. "Derek A. Lockhart. Seven-oh-two a.m."
Nobody said anything. "I did not enter the water," Talia said, "except at the edge."
"I was going to tell you," Derek said. His voice was steady, and that was the worst of it — that he'd clearly rehearsed it, and that the rehearsal was no use to him at all. "Tal. I was going to tell you everything. At Thanksgiving. I swear to God."
"You read this." She held up the page. Her hand was shaking so the paper rattled. "You had this. When I asked you. You told me it was diagrams."
"I know."
"You told me it was the paramedic. You let me call the fire department. You let me sit in Dr. Aronson's office and cry about how my brain was broken." Her voice was rising. "You sat next to me at dinner the night I came home from that and you rubbed my feet."
"I know. I know, I'm —"