Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(90)

I gingerly pick up a broken piece of tile from the box, examining it. “I don’t know why they had to break the tile. Did they seriously think he hid money under there?”

“Watch those. They’re sharp,” Bobby warns, his ass sticking halfway out the bathroom as he kneels, setting the new flooring in. “Damn near hacked half my hand off pullin’ them up.”

“Thank God this bathroom is small.” We went with cheap, generic tile and it still hurt when the bill rang up.

“You realize how much it would cost to have a professional in, right?” He peers over his shoulder at me, his brow coated with sweat and dust.

“I guess it’s good that I know an amateur who can do it for free, then, isn’t it?”

He chuckles, pushing himself off the ground to tower over me. “Ned would be laughin’ his ass off at me right now.”

A spark of sadness touches me with the mention of my uncle.

Bobby’s expression softens. “The guys called. I gotta head out now. Got a tow.”

I nod quietly.

“But I should be ready to grout here by tomorrow.”

“?’Kay.” I hesitate. “Thanks, Bobby.” For everything else that he is, he and the guys are saving my ass here.

“No problem,” he says, peeling off his work gloves.

A shiver runs down my back as I’m hit with a flash of watching that guy Mario do exactly the same thing from my hiding spot under the desk. I was at the same eye level as I am now, and I remember focusing on the spot of fresh blood on his wrist. I was so horrified by it—by what it meant—that I dismissed everything else.

“Why you lookin’ at me like that?” Bobby asks.

“A scar. He had a scar,” I murmur, remembering it now. The skin was pink and puckered, like a burn mark. It stretched over his knuckles and covered the back of his hand.

When the cops questioned me, they pushed me to think about smaller details. Tattoos and piercings. Any other marks that would make someone stand out. I was so busy trying to push out the memory of Ned’s blood on the guy’s wrist that I pushed the scar out, too.

“Who did?”

“Mario. The guy who killed Ned.”

Bobby frowns. “You just rememberin’ that now?”

“Yeah. Weird, isn’t it?” Fields told me to call him if I thought of anything else that might be useful. I figured that was the standard party line. I didn’t expect to actually remember “anything else.”

I don’t know how helpful this will be, but . . .

I head into the kitchen to find my wallet and Fields’s business card, along with my phone.





THIRTY-SIX


SEBASTIAN


“Keep the porn to a minimum. Dakota’s streaming isn’t unlimited,” Ivy throws over her shoulder on her way out of the bedroom, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Like I’d even want that right now.” I eye her ass as it sways in black pants. “Leggings” she called them when I sat here and watched her get dressed, completely spent after a long day working at the house, my mind churning after that disastrous call from Bentley. The one that Ivy ended up hearing anyway, despite my efforts. I played it back in my head at least a dozen times as I worked away, trying to recall every word I might have said. It couldn’t have been too enlightening because she’s still talking to me.

She still stripped down to nothing the minute we stepped into her room, covered in white dust and both needing showers.

She turns to eye me lying in her bed, her gaze drifting over the reaper along my side that she just tended to. It’s scabbing over nicely now, and she seems impressed with the way it’s healing. “I think I’m paid up for at least a week with your bodyguard services, right?”

“At least.” I smirk. “I like your payment plan.”

Her full lips stretch into a devious smile. “I think I do, too.” Dakota’s voice carries into the room. Another guest over for dinner. It’s a revolving door around here. I wonder if this person will top the homeless Jono and the bearded Gerti, whom I never met. “I’m guessing dinner will be ready soon.”

“I’ll be out in fifteen,” I promise her.

I wait until Ivy has rounded the corner before I type “Alliance” into Google’s search engine on my iPad. A list of results fills the screen. They’re the usual articles, most relating to the civilian shooting that government officials were investigating. They’ve been investigating for over four months, with witnesses from both sides giving different accounts. The civilians had guns; they didn’t have guns. They fired first; the Alliance employees fired first. Just two months ago, officials finally concluded there was enough evidence to suggest that enemy bullets were fired, that the two civilians shot and killed may have had guns on them that were swept away by family members.

Alliance was not in violation of deadly-force rules.

When the verdict was first published, I felt only relief for Bentley. Relief that bullshit propaganda wasn’t going to hurt him, or his cause, because it couldn’t be true. Bentley would never support harsh and unfair violence against civilians. Now . . . my stomach turns.

Because the names of two of the Alliance contractors involved mean something to me now.

Mario Scalero and Richard Porter.