Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(65)

She’s not asking if I’ll be back for dinner tomorrow. There’s no doubt in her voice that I will be. And, if I’m honest, the idea sounds more appealing to me than it should. Even if she’s making another seaweed dish. I’ve spent enough time in South Korea to recognize the name.

Ivy’s head shoots up to glare at her, but Dakota ignores it, smiling broadly, first at me then at Jono, who wanders in from the patio, his eyes narrow slits. “Is this the design?” He lifts a sheet of paper, and Ivy’s glare shifts to him, sharpening to razors. “You gonna do it freehand?”

“Yup,” she replies curtly.

“Right on. Dakota’s got a lot of trust in you. You must be really good.” Rubbing his beard, he taps his shoulder and mumbles, “I’ve got this surfer emblem I’ve always wanted to—”

“I’m four-hundred-bucks-an-hour good,” Ivy throws out, ending his attempts to mooch a free tattoo off her.

I leave chuckling, and with a glance around to make sure no one’s watching, I swing past the window to retrieve the tape, a shadow of disappointment trailing me. Seaweed dinner, idiot company and all, that was . . . fun. I wish I could stay.

I wonder how long I can pretend to be this version of Sebastian and get away with it.

Would I even have to, with a girl like Ivy? If I opened up to her, told her what I really do—the kinds of contracts I take on for Bentley, the number of people I’ve killed in the name of saving many more lives—would she be able to accept that?

But then I’d have to come clean with why I’m here in the first place and I’d be f*cking delusional if I thought she’d ever be okay with that.

I need to get this videotape into Bentley’s hands, get a handle on Mario, help her clean up the mess in her house like I promised her I would, and move on. Let Ivy move on.

I crank the engine. But before I pull out, I weigh the tape that has Bentley and Scalero so rattled, that got Royce and Ivy’s uncle killed, in my hand. What exactly did Royce accuse Scalero of doing in that tattoo shop? Even if it was a bunch of lies, the allegations were clearly serious, if Ivy’s uncle thought he could get money out of Alliance for it.

And increasingly, I can’t help but think that perhaps Royce was telling the truth.

I toss the thing onto the passenger seat. I don’t do this. I don’t ask questions. I trust Bentley and I do my job. But I’ve also learned not to question my gut, and none of my other assignments have left my gut feeling unsettled like this.

I’m ready to call Bentley and tell him I have the videotape and the assignment was successful, but I pause and stare at the tape for a moment longer. That will tell me if what Royce and Scalero and who knows who else did over there was worth the end goal.

If people really needed to die over this.

If it’s worth Ivy spending the rest of her life with no answers, no closure to her uncle’s death.

I’ll know why I’m here, in San Francisco. It’ll prove to me that what I do matters for the greater good.

A white corner of paper peeks out of the case. I shake the tape out, and a folded note tumbles out along with it. A man’s scratched handwriting fills the page.

Ivy-If something should happen to me, send this video to Dorris Maclean at NBC. People need to know about this. And don’t tell anyone you have it. ~N.

I need to look up this Dorris Maclean, but my guess is she’s an investigative reporter. So at least Ivy’s uncle had some idea that what he was doing might be risky. Which likely means that he was desperate for the cash he presumed this blackmail scheme was going to get him. He must have already been under threat from whomever he owed money to.

People need to know about this.

What exactly did Ned think people need to know about?

If I phone Bentley now, I have exactly an hour and a half—the time it will take to drive to his Napa home—to produce the tape before he grows suspicious.

And then answers to any questions will be lost to me.

I stare long and hard at the tape.

I can’t believe they still sell these f*cking things, but thank God they do.

I push the tape into the machine and cross my fingers that the cables the department store sales guy said would work on this shitbox motel television actually do. At first, all I see is static and I curse the idiot for being wrong. But after jogging the wires a few times, the screen wobbles, then clears, and the inside of the tattoo shop appears.

At the bottom of the screen is a time stamp of 4:00 p.m., October 21 of this year. About three weeks ago now. A Willie Nelson wannabe—Ivy’s uncle, from the pictures that I’ve seen—is hunched over a woman’s arm with his tattoo gun, working away quietly.

I grin as Ivy saunters past the camera with her case in hand, her narrow hips swinging casually. “You want me to come by with dinner for you later, Ned?”

“Nah. I’ll call Fez.” He has a deep, guttural voice. Not the most friendly-sounding guy.

“I thought he drove you nuts.”

“Ya see . . . Me and Fez, we have an understandin’.” Now he glances over his shoulder at her, and I can just make out the crinkles around his eyes, telling me he’s smiling at her. “He don’t talk and I like ’im.”

She laughs. “I wish I could figure out how to get him to do that for me.”

“You gonna be home later tonight, girl?”