Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(52)

Reaching over my head, I peel my shirt off. Kicking off my jeans, I drop to the ground for my own set of push-ups. I have no specific rep number, though. I figure I’ll just keep going until I can work this shit out in my head.

I wake up at some point in the middle of the night, facedown on the floor beside my bed, having pushed myself to exhaustion.

And having no answer.

TWENTY

Water

now

The old Chevy truck comes to a sputtering halt on the now familiar dirt road.

I check the dashboard. All needles point down.

This isn’t good.

A glance in the rearview mirror confirms that I’m alone. I’m not surprised. I’m about seven miles from home, surrounded by fields and trees. I rarely ever pass anyone out here.

Reaching down, I turn the key to “off” and then try to crank the engine again. All I get in return is a clicking sound. I flop back against the bench with a heavy sigh.

Ginny’s truck is dead.

And I’ve got the week’s groceries sitting in the back. It’s too far to carry them, especially with an arm that’s still weak, although my leg has been better lately. I check my watch. A quarter after five. There’s no way I can get home and get dinner in front of Ginny in time, and I can’t even call her to warn her, because she doesn’t have a phone. Thank God for neighbors.

I dig my cell phone out of my purse to call Amber. It isn’t until I see the blank screen that I remember I forgot to charge it at work earlier. “Dammit!” I cry out, slapping my steering wheel in frustration. I’ve been so good about plugging it in for the afternoon.

Until today.

Because today, all I could focus on was that low, hypnotic rhythm over the stereo system and the ball of anxiety sitting in my stomach.

It’s a clue. I know it.

I lied to Dakota. I told her I loved trance. I pleaded with her to keep it playing all day, desperate for a bigger sliver of insight—a flashback, a clearer feeling.

But all the incessant music did was grow that ball of dread bigger and stronger, making it impossible to ignore.

And now I’m stuck on an old dirt road with a broken truck and no phone.

I rest my head on the worn steering wheel. Ginny’s going to freak. When she says she wants dinner at six o’clock sharp, it’s not just an expression. It took me a few weeks to realize that her eyes are actually glued to the minute hand of her watch and if her meat dish—because there’s no such thing as dinner without meat in Ginny’s eyes—doesn’t hit the table on time, she starts pacing and fidgeting.

It’s not my fault. She knows as well as I do that this old thing was running by the grace of God and nothing more. On the way home from work last week, it started making a rattling sound, like something was loose in the engine. I mentioned it to her. She merely shrugged and asked me if it got me where I needed to go.

Up until now, it has.

How am I going to get to work tomorrow? Dakota needs me there. It’s the first Saturday that the farmers’ market is open, so the shop will be busy.

How am I even going to get home?

I’m not, until someone comes by and I wave them down. Someone I know. Otherwise, what will I do? Get into the car with a stranger? “It’s okay, Water,” I coach myself through slow breaths—like Dr. Weimer told me to do whenever I feel panicked. “You’re in Sisters, Oregon. You’re perfectly safe. Your truck just broke down. It’s a normal thing. It can happen to anyone.”

Except, I’m not just anyone. I’m the girl who was dropped off in an abandoned building parking lot not far from here and left for dead.

A low rumble in the distance, like thunder, and a dust cloud marks the approach of a car. A few seconds later, black paint shines in the late-day sun.

Relief slams into me. I know that car. It’s Jesse. He’ll recognize me. He’ll stop.

Won’t he?

With a hint of trepidation, I scurry out of the driver’s side and round the truck to stand next to the tailgate, butterflies in my stomach as I watch the car near. I don’t really know this guy at all. Sure, he’s Gabe and Meredith’s son. Sure, he waved at me. Once. Sure, he brought over all that firewood. But he’s also the black sheep of the Welles family, of the entire town.

The sports car comes to a stop about ten feet away, its engine grumbling.

I hazard a slight wave. Not really a wave. More a tentative hand held in the air.

He kills the engine and slides out of the car, his body lean and muscular in a pair of jeans and faded black T-shirt.

“Hi . . . Jesse, right?” I’ve never actually talked to him directly, and yet it feels so natural to use his name.

“What’re you doing out here?”

With my panic at being stranded and the subsequent thrill over being rescued, I temporarily forgot about my face. Now, though, standing in front of him, I casually brush my hair forward. Gesturing over my shoulder with my thumb, I explain, “Ginny’s truck just died. I don’t know what happened.”

He smirks. “You didn’t run out of gas, did you?”

“No! I mean . . . I don’t think so.” It sounds like he’s teasing me. I hope I didn’t do something so stupid. Then I remember stopping at the local full-serve on Wednesday. “No. It’s at least three-quarters full.”

I follow him as he moves to the front of the truck and lifts the hood, his arms straining against the weight until he has it propped open. A chill is settling with the early evening. I fold my arms across my chest to ward it off as I study Jesse from the side, while he tests various wires with the ease of an expert.