Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(78)

He doesn’t turn around.

“Boone!”

“I don’t know for sure, all right!”

“No. Not all right! Are you f**king kidding me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He spins on his heels to face me. “That’s not exactly the kind of thing you talk about. And it’s not like they carry around business cards to announce themselves.” He lowers his voice. “Look . . . I’m just starting to work my way into Rust’s circle. You don’t just stroll in there, unannounced and uninvited.”

“Rust’s ‘circle’?” I make air quotes around the word. “Are you telling me that Rust is Russian mob? What the hell have you gotten me mixed up in? What are you getting mixed up in?”

“No! Rust is not with them. He’s got several businesses—two that are legit, one that technically isn’t . . .” This is the first I’m hearing that Rust may not fully be aboveboard either. “And he’s making a ton of money that I want in on. That’s all. Some of his connections may be to guys like Viktor.”

“And Viktor is mob.” It’s not a question.

“I don’t know one hundred percent, but it’s probably a safe bet to assume so. Look, I hear shit! They have a lot of business conversations around that table and they have no f**king clue that I might understand what they’re saying.”

Nausea burns my stomach as panic sets in. I rebuilt a car for the damn mob. I’ve had the wife of a Russian mobster in my bed for the past six nights. Dropping my voice, because I don’t want Alex to hear, I ask, “Is he capable of something like that?”

Boone’s mouth opens but he doesn’t speak right away, like he’s trying to choose his words. “I’ve heard that he has a bad temper.”

Would finding out that his wife is leaving him set it off? How about for the twenty-four-year-old gearhead who he hired to fix his engine? “Why wouldn’t you warn me?”

He shoots a finger at me. “I did warn you. More than once, remember?”

“No. Not about this, you didn’t.”

“Dude, what the hell was I supposed to say? I told you about the stolen cars, didn’t I? That should have been fair warning that Viktor’s not some office chump who will roll over for the guy screwing his wife.”

“Fuck you, Boone. You’re an ass**le.” I march out of his room, slamming his door on my way.

Alex is sitting on my bed, her cheeks wet with tears. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t. I’m so sorry.”

I drop to my knees in front of her, taking her hands in mine. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“What have we done?” she whispers, her eyes pleading with me. “He’s going to kill us.”

“No he’s not, because he’s never going to find out. That couple on TV—they were probably being stupid about it. That’s why they got caught. We’ve been careful. You haven’t even left the apartment since Sunday. No one knows you’re here except Boone, and he’s not going to say a thing.” Boone’s the one who brought me into the fold. I’m sure he doesn’t want to go down with us.

She dips her forehead into mine. “He’s not going to just let me leave, is he?” The defeat in her voice squeezes my heart.

“We’ll figure it out. We’ll get you away from him. I promise.”

That night, I hold her tense body against mine as we both stare out the window, not speaking, not sleeping.

And I feel it.

Everything has changed.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Water

now

“The usual, Water?” Lauren asks with a smile, reaching for two large Styrofoam cups.

“No. Not today.”

The short, apple-figured cashier and daughter of Poppa—the owner of Poppa’s Diner—freezes midway. She prides herself on knowing what the regulars want. Now she’s looking at me like I’ve thrown a wrench into her weekday routine and irreparably damaged her flow.

“The usual for Dakota,” I quickly correct. “But can I have a large with,” I cringe, “two-and-a-half milks and one sweetener?”

She cocks her head. “Honey, a what?”

I have to repeat my order three times before Lauren gives up and slides a carton of milk and a few packets of Splenda across the counter with a black coffee. “I’ll just screw it up.”

After paying, I shift over to an open table to mix my coffee, inhaling the delicious scent of bacon and home fries. Everyone and their children and their grandchildren have eaten at Poppa’s, a staple in Sisters for sixty years this summer. The white-haired man behind the grill opened the place when he was twenty-two years old and still works seven days a week, double-time on weekends, when the town packs the small place. Even now it’s buzzing with light chatter, half the tables occupied by the retired population.

“Excuse me.” I look up to find an older woman with short auburn hair standing opposite me. “Are you Ginny Fitzgerald’s cousin?” Her blue eyes glance over the right side of my face and I can see her mentally adding a check mark next to “giant scar.” Whoever gave her my description didn’t neglect to mention that. I wonder where it was on the list of my identifying features.

“I am.”