Pressure Read Online Free Page A

gulf between them. Her mother had always thought Carrie was headstrong, stubborn, and unnecessarily reckless by pursuing such a dangerous career, if she could call it that. Even early on, when Carrie’s aptitude for diving had first manifested, her mother had been less than supportive. That had remained so as years went by and Carrie began to train. She’d always viewed Carrie’s free diving as nothing more than a phase, like dying her hair pink or listening to Morrissey—something that Carrie would eventually grow out of, before settling down with a husband like Rachel had done. Carrie was pretty sure her diving would have been received differently if she were a son instead. Though her mother insisted that she truly wanted the best for Carrie, seeing her so restless and (in her mother’s mind) unhappy as a young woman, troubled her. Her mother thought that, because Rachel had found happiness by settling down with a nice young man, Carrie would do the same. All she had to do was find the right guy …
    Her mother had wanted more grandchildren, while Carrie had just wanted her mother to be proud of her. Just once.
    Then, her mother had died, leaving both of them wanting and unfulfilled.
    She sat the phone down on the bar beside her, finished her beer in one long gulp, and caught the bartender’s attention.
    â€œTwo more of those, please?”
    â€œOf course. Coming right up.”
    She posted a quick update, letting everyone know she was out of the hospital and assuring them she was okay. She waited a few minutes, responded to a few comments, and then closed the app. Sighing, Carrie picked up her glass and took another deep draught.
    Damn it, Mom …
    There was a bustle of noise from the doorway. The bartender looked up, and Carrie judged by his expression that this was far more traffic than he was normally accustomed to at this time of day. She half-turned on her stool, and saw four people entering the bar. One was a paunchy, middle-aged, balding white man dressed in a rumpled pair of shorts and a shirt that had never been introduced to an iron. A taller, thinner white man in his late twenties followed. Unlike his companion, he was immaculately dressed, with crisp, creased khakis and an eye-catching Hawaiian shirt. The third customer was a young Indian man with beautiful eyes that immediately caught Carrie’s attention. But then her gaze was drawn to the video camera the man was holding. This was no mere tourist, taping his vacation for posterity. The camera was a professional-grade rig, just like the one the reporters had carried onboard the Novak. Lastly, a woman entered the bar. Carrie recognized her luxuriant red hair and creamy complexion right away—Jessamine Wheatley of CBS News.
    The four of them paused, letting their eyes adjust to the dim light. Spying her, they conferred amongst themselves for a brief moment. Then, the two white guys pulled out chairs and sat down at a table while Jessamine and the cameraman approached her cautiously, as if Carrie were a tiger and they were two timid mice.
    Carrie drained her second shot of whiskey and slammed the glass down on the bar, not hard enough to shatter it, but loud enough to make her displeasure known. The bartender, picking up on the tension, eyed the two women as if they were gunfighters. Carrie had a sudden, bizarre image of him ducking beneath the bar as gunshots rang out, like in an old western movie. The only thing missing was a piano player and a set of swinging doors. Despite her annoyance, she grinned at the thought.
    The reporter must have mistaken her grin for friendliness, because her timidity vanished and she strode boldly toward the bar, hand outstretched. The cameraman hurried along in her wake, obviously uncomfortable and nervous.
    â€œCarrie Anderson! I’m—”
    â€œIs this on the record?” Carrie interrupted.
    â€œUm … no?”
    â€œThen go fuck yourself.” Carrie turned