Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(66)

One side of her mouth—the good side, the one that’s not swollen—curves up in a smile. “Thank you, Jesse.”

I don’t want to leave her but I do, heading back downstairs to find my father—Sheriff Gabe Welles—scanning the interior of my car, an open bottle of beer in his hand and another one tucked under his arm. He doesn’t drink much and when he does, it’s only one or two. “Hey, Dad.”

He glances up at me. “Hey, Jesse. Your mom didn’t tell me you were coming home this weekend.”

“Last-minute decision.” I watch him as he quietly circles the car, his hand sliding over the body. Without a word, he holds out the extra beer and I take it. Neither of us is a big talker. “So you finally got it.”

“Drove it off the lot today.”

He smiles to himself. “So that sparked your last-minute decision.” A pause. “How much?”

“Just under sixteen.” That’s what the papers say. Do I think it’s accurate? Probably not. That, or Viktor’s a rich fool with more money than he knows what to do with. Rebuilding the engine on a car like the Aston Martin wouldn’t be cheap, but there’s no way it’s worth almost half a year’s net salary for me.

“You had that kind of money saved up?” I don’t miss the suspicion in his voice. It’s the same suspicion I’ve faced for the last ten years, since my friends and I got picked up for lifting a six-pack of beer from the local gas station. Of course, I’ve done plenty of regrettable things since then, too, in his eyes, but it seems that I also can’t do anything right anymore. I went to school and got a full-time job. I pay my bills on time. I stay away from the kind of idiots I hung out with in high school. I don’t think it’ll ever be enough.

Then again, considering I’m driving what may or may not be a stolen car, and I have another man’s wife hiding upstairs, maybe I’m still doing a lot wrong.

“I’ve been working hard. And I just rebuilt a DB5 engine for this rich ass**le. He paid me well.” Not a lie.

“Huh . . .” He holds his hand up. No need to explain further. I toss my keys to him and, leaning into the open driver’s-side window, he cranks the engine. Even though that rumble is far from the smoothest I’ve ever heard, it still gets me excited. I hear the release on the hood pop and move to prop it up. We come together in front of the car, arms crossed. The Welles Men pose, my mom always calls it. There’s an old picture of my granddad, my dad, and me—at maybe ten years old—standing in a row right here in this garage, in front of my dad’s Mustang, our arms crossed in the same way.

“What does it need?”

“Dunno. I’ll find out this weekend.”

He nods slowly.

“Where’s Mom? Amber?”

“Hospital. Your mom’s there for a long stretch and Amber’s pulling nights with overtime.”

Perfect. “Amber’s still going to Europe?”

He sucks back on his beer bottle. “So she tells us. We’ll see.” If my twin sister actually goes ahead with this idea of hers—to travel the world for a year—I’ll probably be the most surprised. She’s always played the role of small-town sheriff’s daughter effortlessly, charming the right people, smiling for the cameras, weighing her decisions carefully to ensure she doesn’t make one that might look bad for my dad. She thrives on being the center of attention in our small universe, and in high school, she was just that—Rodeo Queen, class valedictorian, and the winner of several state championships in horseback riding. She could have applied to almost any program at almost any school, and yet she chose to stay close to home. A part of me thinks it’s because she doesn’t want to become a tadpole in the ocean.

Taking off and wandering around the world alone just isn’t something she’s cut out for.

I suck back the rest of my beer and then cut the engine. “I’m heading to bed, Dad.”

He frowns. “This early?” He glances at the clock on the wall, which somehow keeps working even though I don’t remember ever changing the battery. Granted, I’ve always been a night owl and it’s only ten thirty. Still, his cop radar is always on.

“I’ve been working nonstop. I’m beat.” I give my eyes a good rub, not just for effect but because I really am exhausted.

He nods to himself. “Right. Glad to see you doing well, Jesse. Make sure you check the damper on the woodstove.” He turns his flashlight back on and picks his path down the road, heading toward home. I watch him for a while. He’s in his mid-fifties, and he’ll be sheriff until he loses an election or is forced out. I think he was born to wear that badge. He’s good at it, too. Gabe Welles is revered as hard-nosed and righteous, the kind of man who wouldn’t balk at questioning his own son for attempted murder when two pieces of shit pointed their fingers his way.

Hitting the garage door—we’re four miles from the closest neighbor besides Ginny Fitzgerald next door and yet I always lock up—I leave the hood up and shut the lights, wanting to get back to Alex.

She’s exactly where I left her, hugging the edge of the mattress. Asleep.

On nothing more than a mattress cover, in a cold, dank attic, Alex curled up into a ball and fell asleep. She probably didn’t sleep a wink last night or today. If she’s like me, she hasn’t slept well since last Sunday.