Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(24)

I note that she doesn’t include her son, Jesse, on that list of acceptable trespassers.

“Have you already talked to her about this? Because I’m not so sure she’s going to like this idea.” I’m not sure I like this idea.

“She has already agreed to it.” She adds after a pause, “She likes you. A lot.”

“What?”

All Dr. Alwood does is shrug and smile. But then she frowns. “She says she had a good talk with you last night? About your . . . similar pasts.”

The ball of fear that’s taken up residence in my chest since our conversation swells. What if Ginny’s right? I’ve been sitting in this hospital room for months now, hoping and praying that one morning I’ll wake up and feel whole again. I’ll know what my parents’ names are and whether I look more like my mom or my dad; I’ll know if I went to the prom like the girls on television and, if I did, who my date was. I’ll remember my first kiss, my summer vacations, my best friend’s name.

I’ll remember my name.

But what if I can never be whole again?

What if all those little bits that make up me get lost, overshadowed by one dark memory? My last memory, the one that made me want to forget everything else in the first place. Will I be able to escape the kind of damage that experience can cause? “Do you think that I’ll turn out like Ginny?” I finally whisper. Bitter and cowering in the presence of men.

Eternally afraid.

“Ginny’s always been a little bit ‘off,’ from what Gabe remembers of her, even when he was a young child. Part of it is just her. Her little ‘eccentricities.’ ” She pauses and then admits, “But part of it isn’t.”

“She didn’t tell me much. What happened to her?”

“She’s never talked to me or anyone else about it. I only know because Gabe knows. If it hadn’t been especially traumatic, I’m guessing no one would ever have found out.” She pauses. “That she actually brought it up with you says something. Maybe one day she’ll tell you the rest.”

Maybe. There’s only one reason I can think of for her to divulge her own dark secret. It would be on the day that I remember mine.

ELEVEN

Jesse

then

I doubt this driveway has ever seen the likes of a shit box like mine. I was kind of hoping the automatic gates at the entrance would malfunction and crush my car as I edged through.

That didn’t happen, though, and now I’m navigating the long, winding landscaped drive to the sprawling estate home ahead, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, my head pounding from all the vodka last night. Wondering for the hundredth time what the hell I’m doing here. Not that I had an option to say no. The second I stepped into the garage this morning—still half asleep thanks to thin walls and listening to Boone and Priscilla until three in the morning—Miller shoved a slip of paper into my hand and ordered me to follow the directions to “Mr. Petrova’s” residence for a ten a.m. meeting. And to call him Mr. Petrova, unless he tells me otherwise.

I pull up alongside a gold Hummer just as Viktor and a man I haven’t seen before step out of the double-story brick house, golf bags slung over their shoulders, gold watches catching rays from a rare day of blue skies and sunshine. Next to their tailored pants and collared golf shirts, I look every bit the broke-ass kid mechanic in my ripped jeans and worn T-shirt.

If the way I look right now bothers Viktor, he doesn’t let on. With that stone-cold mask, he doesn’t give much away, period.

“Hello, Jesse. I am glad you could make it.” Not giving me a chance to respond, he hands his clubs to the guy beside him and begins walking toward the four-car garage, calling out behind him, “Follow me, please.” No friendly urinal-side chatter. This guy’s all business today. That’s fine. I don’t have much to say.

When he punches a code into the garage door and we step inside, all I can manage is a low whistle. The garage may have only four doors, but it extends far enough to accommodate eight cars and Viktor has used the space wisely, lining the back wall with a ’62 fire-engine-red Ferrari, a ’65 Shelby Coupe in metallic blue, a black ’68 Porsche 911, and a green ’55 Mercedes Coupe. The four together have to be worth a couple million. Easy.

Boone’s right. I may blow my load in my pants right here, standing next to Viktor Petrova.

“As you can see, I, too, have a passion for classic cars. These have all been completely restored.” Prying my eyes from the Shelby with difficulty, I glance over at Viktor. Genuine excitement dances through his eyes as they slide over his collection: all rare, all expensive, and all in mint condition, their coats of paint gleaming under the fluorescent lighting.

With a nod toward the far left, he says, “I would like to add my Aston Martin with your help.” A mixed collection of boxes and loose car parts surround the classic, a dull navy blue in need of some serious body work, a small rust hole eating through the back panel. Still . . . it’s a f**king DB5! This guy already has the polished but hardened appearance down pat. Throw him in a suit and this car, finished, and someone might cast him in the next James Bond movie. More likely as the villain, though.

I watch as he pulls a cigarette and a lighter from his shirt pocket. The pack has the same strange alphabet on it that I now recognize as Russian. Through the first inhale, he murmurs, “The engine has seized. I expect it will need plenty of new parts. If you provide me with a list, I will appropriate them quickly.”