Ophelia Sinclair was dead.
Her body weighed down with sandbags, had been tossed into the icy depths of the sea for three days, but even in death, her spirit clung on.
It was as if her emotions had run too deep and too raw to keep her soul anchored, and grief itself had become the chain that bound her. She felt the crushing pressure of the water, the suffocating stillness that surrounded her like a silent scream.
