Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(74)

“I’m sorry,” I finally offer, dragging my trash bag across the tile floor to toss it onto the front porch.

He picks up the broom that is lying on the floor and begins sweeping the loose macaroni into piles. “Don’t do it again.” His dark eyes flicker up to me as he adds, “Please.”

I want to ask him why he cares, why he came back, why he doesn’t have anything better to do, anyone else to see. Why he’d stick around if I’m being so difficult.

Instead, I quietly pile the magazines and newspapers together and tie them for easy removal.

Because right now, I’m just happy he’s here.



I groan, slumping against the doorframe to Ned’s office. Every file on every customer that Ned has kept over the years—I’m sure he shredded the oldest ones, at least—was neatly organized in the row of cabinets.

Now, every file on every customer that Ned has kept over the years covers the floor. You can’t even see the faded beige rug because of the paper.

“What do you want to do with all that?” Sebastian asks. I feel him standing close behind me.

“Shred it.” I sigh. “Except for any customers I worked on while I was here, I guess. They can’t take Ned’s license away, but they can still take mine.”

“And where are yours?”

“They should be in that pile over there, next to the upturned boxes. I just brought those in the other day.” And the *s dumped those, too.

“How will you know which ones are yours?”

Paper crunches beneath my boots as I step through the mess and stoop down to pick up a sheet, pointing out my name in Ned’s scrawl on the top of the form. A twinge of sadness stirs in my stomach at the sight of it. “They’ll all say my name like that, on the top.”

Sebastian pulls it from my grasp and steps around me to take a seat in the office chair. He reaches down to grab a stack of papers. “Why don’t you tackle your uncle’s room? I can manage this.”

I leave quietly, but not without a glance over my shoulder to see Sebastian eying me.





TWENTY-SIX


SEBASTIAN


I go for the latest records first, because I know that Ivy’s clients will be in there.

And because I’m hoping that Royce has a file in here, too. I need his address.

I need to find out more about him.

Ivy’s worked on a lot of customers in her seven months at the shop. I’m no longer wondering how she has a chunk of money saved. It’s not on account of any criminal side jobs. She just works really hard, and at two hundred bucks an hour, she’s earning a solid living for herself.

After twenty minutes of digging, I find the original paperwork Royce filled out. I fold it and tuck it into my back pocket just as Ivy passes by, tossing in two more box flats and several trash bags on her way. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I wouldn’t do it if I were you.”

I level her with a look. I don’t normally hold a grudge but I’m still pissed at her, even though she’s apologized.

I can’t help it. Bentley has the videotape now, so Alliance has no more use for Ivy, alive or otherwise. But Scalero, he has reason not to want her alive, a thought that’s been pricking at my mind since I pulled out of Bentley’s driveway this morning. An hour and a half later, that little prickle had grown into something more difficult to ignore.

And then I showed up at Dakota’s to find Ivy’s car gone.

I nearly came straight here, but I’m glad I went to the door first. Dakota told me she had left only ten minutes before, and where she was heading.

It’s one thing to have Ivy believing that a biker gang is somehow behind all this.

It’s an entirely different thing to have her confronting them about it. By the time I arrived at that auto shop, it was obvious Ivy and that big guy, Bobby, were well into it. The only other time I’ve had any direct experience with bikers in the past was in San Diego, and the shithead was waling on his woman outside a bar.

I wasn’t going to stand back and watch that happen again.

Ivy ducks out without another word, leaving me to this nightmare.

I could easily make my excuses and leave now.

I grab a trash bag.



I’ve survived eighteen months of intensive SEAL training.

I’ve survived two tours in Afghanistan.

I’ve survived thirteen assignments for Bentley that no one will ever talk about, or know about.

I’ve been shot, stabbed, blown up, and beaten.

But it’s the dozen paper cuts on my fingers that may finally break me.

“Fuck!” I curse as another page slices across my knuckle. I toss the bag aside and suck my knuckle to relieve the sting, just as Ivy speeds past. I expect a glance, a derisive snort, some mocking.

When she doesn’t even lift her head, I know that something’s wrong. She’s been on edge all day. When I got to the auto shop, it was clear by the look in her eyes that she was happy to see me. That didn’t stop her from punishing me for leaving so abruptly last night by giving me attitude. But this must be different.

Forgetting my personal woes, I make my way to her bedroom to find her crouching over her dresser, trying to lift it back to its upright position.

“That’s heavy. Let me help you with—”