Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(79)

Ivy didn’t say much more about what the biker told her about her uncle, his gambling issues, and the sizable debt he accrued. I’m sure it’s still percolating, but she won’t show it. That’s the way she operates. And that mind of hers, it’s a sharp, dangerous thing because she’s already figured out all on her own the gist of her uncle’s f*ckup: He had something he was trying to sell, and it got him killed.

“Here.” Royce’s ex-girlfriend hands me a Post-it note with an address in Sunset scribbled on it in blue pen. “If you don’t mind, could you also pass this bag of Dylan’s things along? Just a few things that he left behind.”

I take the bag, silently thanking her. This will make my next stop easier. “And, again, I’m sorry for your loss.” I feel her eyes on my back as I march down the steps and head down the street to where I parked.



Dylan’s mom lives in a small bungalow in one of San Francisco’s biggest neighborhoods. I used to hang out here a lot in my teenage years. It’s close to the beach and lots of college kids rent out places. I woke up in more than one random bed around here, back in the day.

Now that I’m walking up the street, I’m rethinking the wisdom of speaking with these people. I’ve always followed the rule that I don’t make contact unless absolutely necessary. That’s how I remain an effective ghost.

But my need to know more about Royce overrides my common sense at this point.

I’m just about to turn from the sidewalk onto the path that leads to his mom’s mint-green door when I hear a whimper coming from behind the fence that wraps around the side of the house. A small black snout pokes out.

I smile.



The woman’s eyes widen as soon as she opens the door and sees the golden hairball—a Pekingese, or some version of it—squirming in my grip.

“Ma’am. She was running along the street. Her collar says that she belongs here.”

Her hands go to her chest with shock. “But how did she get out of the backyard?” She looks from the dog—Fefe, from the tag—to her left, to the yard beyond the house. “I just let her out to do her business.”

“The gate is open.”

She frowns. “No. It can’t be. I remember latching it last night. Unless . . .” I watch closely as the poor woman—in her late sixties, by the level of wrinkles around her jaw and eyes—doubts her memory. Deep bags hang beneath her eyes. The dazed eyes of a woman who just lost her son and hasn’t wrapped her head around it yet.

Fefe finally twists her body enough that I can’t hold on any longer without hurting her. So I bend down and gently herd her into the house.

“Oh, goodness. Thank you so much, young man. She could have been hit by a car,” she says, silently accepting that maybe she did forget to latch it. I feel only slightly bad for deceiving her, but rescuing a dog is a surefire way to earn a senior citizen’s instant trust.

“Are you by any chance Dylan Royce’s mother?”

She pauses, frowns. “Yes.”

“I was on my way here anyway. I wanted to offer my condolences. My name’s John. Dylan was a friend of mine. I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

Her eyes begin to water as her head bobs up and down in silent thanks. “It was terrible. He survived so many years in the war and then he was shot in a tattoo parlor, right here in his own city.” She produces a tissue from a pocket and blows her nose. “Would you like to come in for coffee?”

That was even easier than I had expected.



“Here he is, receiving his medal.” She taps on the picture of her son, shaking hands with the president. “I never saw his father more proud of Dylan than on that day. When he passed away six months later, it was as a happy man.”

“I can understand why.” An hour after sitting down to a pot of hot coffee, listening patiently as a devastated mother showcases his local hero medals, and his time as a volunteer firefighter, with letters from little girls and boys who thanked him for saving their kittens from trees and dogs from house fires; a picture of a baby he delivered on the side of the freeway. To top it all off, the highest medal that anyone can receive.

I’m now all but convinced that Royce was not the troublemaker that Bentley painted him as. And if he was, it’s probably because he didn’t agree with what he was seeing over there.

And that is what got him killed.

And no one will ever know the truth, thanks to me.

I’m not sure what I expected to feel after I confirmed this hunch, but it’s not this sickly pain in the pit of my stomach.

His mom sniffles. “As much as I hated what happened to Dylan and Jasmine, I was so happy to have him back home for a while, to help me with cutting the grass and taking out the trash, all those house things. Taking care of this house is a lot of work for just me.”

I glance around at the small tidy house, in need of a good purge that I’m guessing won’t happen until after she’s gone. “Do you have any family in the area?”

She shakes her head. “My sister lives near Syracuse with her kids. They asked me to move there, but I can’t handle the snow. So it’s just me and Fefe now.” At the sound of her name, the little dog runs up to paw at her thigh. Royce’s mom leans over and scoops her up, giving the top of her head a kiss. “I can’t thank you enough. Had I lost her, too, I don’t know that I could handle it.”