Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(65)

Ivy’s already setting up on the table in the living room when I come out, clearing the space and lining up the soap spray and gloves. She’s meticulous about her space and her process. Music pumps through the tiny speaker next to her. The woman loves her music.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh.” She shoots a quick smile over her shoulder at me, her freshly f*cked glowing cheeks a thing of beauty. Telling me that she’s not angry about the bang-and-run. Or at least I think that’s what that is. Fuck, I don’t know how to deal with this kind of shit. I can read a person’s motives and evil intentions like they’re painted on a wall, but this?

Dakota steps into the house, her limbs relaxed and eyelids slightly lazy, the smell of her recently enjoyed weed wafting toward me.

Something else I haven’t done since my teenage years.

“Are you leaving already?” Dakota’s lips curl in a pout, and she looks genuinely upset. She’s an odd one, and I can’t understand what attracts the two of them to each other. Dakota’s acceptance of others, maybe. Because, as much as I like Ivy, you have to be a pretty open-minded person to understand—and tolerate—her.

I offer her a smile. “I am. Thank you for dinner.”

Dakota peels off her light sweater, revealing several feminine tattoo designs already decorating her arms, back, and shoulders. “My pleasure. I’m making kimbap for dinner tomorrow. You’ll love it.”

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.