Dark Waters (2013) (7 page)

A bald eagle swooped through the air and landed in a tree high above her head. He stared at her with a beady eye that suggested she didn’t belong here.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Talking to yourself?”

She jumped. Brent Carver moved as swift and silent as a cougar out of the shadow of the trees. She stared into his bright blue eyes, more than a little disconcerted to realize just how handsome he was in daylight. Tall and rangy, he had rugged features and a bold straight nose. Lines of experience etched his face, but a dimple cut in and out of his cheek and, combined with the vivid sparkle in those eyes, it was hard not to stare. Plus, he was shirtless and the torso she’d worked so hard not to ogle in the moonlight was once again on full display with wide hard pecs and those smooth blocks of muscle pulling taut across his abdomen. She hadn’t known that sort of muscle tone existed outside men’s underwear commercials.

Her eyes shot back to his face. Wet, sunbaked blond hair, unshaven scruff darkening his jaw, and a full bottom lip that would have most normal women drooling. She wasn’t normal, but her pulse took a leap anyway.

“Anna.” He cocked a wary brow.

Water glistened like diamonds all over his chest. Wet board shorts clung to him like a second skin. He’d obviously been swimming. She whipped her eyes back up again as her cheeks heated. Not her type. Definitely not her type—but he had her mouth
watering with basic female appreciation because, while she might be screwed up, she wasn’t dead.

Brent Carver was
not
someone she was comfortable with. Sexy as hell. Oozing testosterone. Definitely not her type. She voted team beta in every way. “I always pictured you as the same age as my father.”

He lifted the other brow.

“Dad talked about you in his letters.” They’d written to each other every week after he’d gone to prison. Being arrested had forced him to grow up. It had been painful to see him lose his childlike spirit even though it had been his own stupid fault.

Guilt rose up. Guilt and grief, and terrible swirling regret. She closed her eyes and tried to remember good times. Cleared her throat. “He told me how talented you were. Said you were going to be famous one day.”

“Famous? I never wanted to be famous.” His mouth thinned into a stern line.

“You seem to enjoy the trappings.” She swept her hand at the private beach and massive house.

“I’ve always lived here.” Words were drawn out reluctantly, like he’d forgotten the art of conversation. “I just wanted a house that would withstand the squalls.”

“This is where you grew up?”

“Yup.”

Anna stared around. It was beautiful, but…“Don’t you ever get lonely?”

“Hell, no.”

“You don’t find it a little isolated?”

Thick brows crunched over his eyes. “Not isolated enough, apparently.”

Ouch
. She turned away and cinched her arms over her chest. “I apologize that I dumped this on you.”

He moved closer. Only a step, but it made her senses spring to life and the muscles of her feet flex as if preparing for flight.

“Your father was right to tell you to come to me. I’m just not real good with people.”

“No kidding.” Her voice shook. Brent Carver’s rugged maleness was something she didn’t trust. That was why she dated guys like Peter. Too bad she couldn’t trust them either. “I probably overreacted, coming here.” She eased away from him. She felt stupid and irrational, and she was never irrational. She was calm and levelheaded and always in control.

“Losing your dad is a good reason to overreact.” Sympathy softened his voice and it stroked over her skin like a caress. “For what it’s worth, I think you did the smart thing to disappear when you did.”

Something in his voice made her tilt her face toward him. “Why?”

He bent down and picked up a white shell. Polished the smooth surface with his thumb. Eventually he met her gaze.

“I spoke to a law enforcement friend of mine last night.”

“You have law enforcement friends?”

“Wild, huh?” The wind blew his hair in his eyes. Sand dusted his bare feet. He looked like everyone’s fantasy castaway. He bent over and picked up his smartphone, which nestled on top of a towel, behind a log. “You ever seen this guy before?” He held out the phone with a picture of a lean, fit-looking man with short, black hair on the screen. He wore a gray suit. There was a time stamp on the bottom that was about five seconds before her father’s message had been sent.

“No. Who is he?” Her fingers shook as she handed him back the phone.

He draped the towel across his shoulders. “One of the guys who chased Davis into that subway station. The other one wore a ball cap and glasses, not so easily identifiable. This asshole actually grabbed hold of your dad.”

“There was a hang-up after that message he left me.” Her stomach dipped.

“They must have taken his phone. They know he called you.” He cleared his throat but his voice remained gruff. “Just after that
photo was taken, your dad broke away and fell under a train that was pulling into the station.”

Blood drained from her head and she swayed. Brent caught her elbow, holding her firmly on her feet. He let go of her arm as soon as she was steady.

“He wouldn’t have suffered. He died instantly,” he told her.

Bitterness welled in her throat. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“You bet your ass it is.”

Her hand went to her mouth to hold back sobs as grief rammed her. Her father was dead, and no matter how much he’d hurt or frustrated her in the past, she’d always loved him. Hot tears blurred her vision.

Great
.

She spun away, drawing in huge gasps of air, fighting the onslaught of emotion. Why now? Why not yesterday when she’d been alone for hours? Why not in bed? Why here in the presence of a stranger who’d been closer to her father than she’d been?

Brent didn’t reach for her. He just stood there, watching her fall apart. Intimidating, scary, and grim, but perceptive enough to know she didn’t want to be touched, especially not by a man just as dark and tortured as her father had been. Score one for Brent Carver.

She wiped her cheeks. Stared at the waves that crept up the rim of the beach. Felt as hollowed out as the shell he’d held in his hands. “I need to bury him.”

“The cops are investigating his death. The coroner’s gonna want to keep the body for a while.”

She felt sick. Cold eased into her bones and she shivered despite the heat of the sun. Her relationship with her father had always torn her to shreds, the shackles of love and distrust pulling equally hard in opposite directions. During high school, writing to her dad had become a way of dealing with her life, an escapist fantasy where she got to be in control. By the time she left home
to go to college, her letters had become a habit and almost a diary that helped her cope—a way of communicating with a man she loved but would never trust again. In the end, her letters had been less about her father and more about herself, and that too felt like a betrayal.

Their letters had created the illusion of closeness. She’d known it was an illusion because when her father was released from prison he’d felt like a stranger. And even though she wanted to rebuild those bonds, she could never bring herself to really trust him. That realization had created a distance between them that her father had been unable to breach, no matter how hard he tried.

Now he was dead, and with that bleak reality came a sudden need to honor him. “I have to give the police that voice mail message.”

“No,” said Brent.

“I have to.”

“
Fuck
. No, that’s the last thing you should do.” Brent propped both hands on his head as if to contain his frustration. “Davis wasn’t the sort of guy to scare you for no reason. He loved you. You were the only thing that mattered to him in the whole damn world.”

“Then why couldn’t he keep his hands off other people’s money?” It was impossible to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

He opened his mouth to speak. Cut himself off. Scowled. “Listen, Anna, the cops don’t care about
why
things happen, they only care about the goddamned law. Your daddy talked about moving money—we don’t even know whose money. What are the chances they’re gonna believe Davis did it for the greater good unless we have proof?”

Nausea swirled in her stomach. She knew what it was like when the authorities suspected you of involvement in a crime. That was another reason why her mother could never forgive her dad, because she’d been humiliated by the cops and the press.

Being treated that way by people who were supposed to protect you shattered your belief in the justice system. “I don’t want to go through another scandal.”

“Whoever he took the money from is going to want it back. From the look of that guy in the subway, they’re not going to ask nicely.” The wind tossed his hair in his eyes again and he shoved it impatiently away from his face. “All we need to do is find the letter he sent you and deliver it to the cops. Going to them before we have that evidence is only going to make your daddy look guilty and possibly put you in danger.”

She stared at him, feeling like she was about to come apart at the seams. But she wasn’t the only one suffering. Fine lines of fatigue etched Brent’s eyes; a touch of crimson stained the whites. He hadn’t slept much last night.

“Any idea where he might have mailed this thing?” he asked, quieter now.

Her brain turned slowly. “My house, my school?”

“We need to check them out, but we have to assume the bad guys will be doing the same.”

“How would they know what he said to me on my voice mail?” she asked, confused.

Brent picked up another shell and tossed it into the sea. “Bribery, hacking. There are ways of getting into your voice mail messages.”

And criminals always seemed to know about them. Her teeth started to rattle. “This can’t be happening.” She was a teacher. The daughter of an ex-con.

“It’s OK.” He took a step forward but didn’t touch her. His expression was flat, but there was a fervency in his eyes that made them glow. “As long as no one knows you’re here, you’re safe.”

For some reason his reassurance helped. Her brain slowly engaged the problem. “There was a lady in his building—Viola—who picked up his mail when he wasn’t there. Maybe he mailed it to himself?”

“Already on it.” He nodded. “But he said
you’d
know where he sent it.”

The pressure felt like it was going to explode her skull. She pressed her hands to the side of her head. “Maybe my mom’s house? Or my grandmother’s old house, but I rent that out to students.” Her grandmother had died six months ago and left her the property at her father’s insistence. Anna had flown back for the funeral. It was the last time she’d seen her father alive.

She’d been a lousy daughter.

She clenched her jaw and narrowed her gaze. “I didn’t see anything at Mom’s when I was there yesterday, but it wouldn’t have arrived yet. They’re the only places I can think of, right now.”

“Make a list. We’ll figure out a way of checking them, safely, from a distance.”

“I could call the school.”

“No phone calls.” Brent shook his head. “I don’t want anyone tracing you to Bamfield. And the only way to know for sure is to ask them, face-to-face. I have a PI I’ve used before. I called him last night and asked him to see if anything turns up at Davis’s apartment, and see if he can dig up anything on the company your daddy worked for.”

The energy drained out of her and she shook her head. “I can’t just sit around for the rest of my life, just waiting…”

He grunted. “You still a teacher?”

“Why?” It was disconcerting he knew that much about her. She knew very little about him, except he was an artist and he’d been in prison. Although, maybe that was enough.

“Kids broken up for the summer?”

She nodded.

“So you’ve got time to figure this out.” His eyes held patience and an unexpected kindness. There was another long pause. “It might be safer if you never went back.”

“What do you mean?” Shock froze her in place.

“Life changes.” He shrugged. “You can disappear. I’ll set you up with a new name, new job. You don’t
have
to go back. It’s an option you need to consider.”

But she had responsibilities. A house and career she loved. “If I run away, the people responsible for my dad’s death will never be punished.”

Brent’s expression was guarded.

“What if it were your father?” asked Anna.

Something indecipherable shifted in the depths of his eyes. “Then I’d want the bastards to pay.”

“OK, then.” She started up the beach.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Back. To Chicago and Minneapolis.”

“No!” A frustrated groan came out of his mouth. “Jesus H. You’re not listening to me.” He grabbed her arm. “You can’t go home yet.”

“What do you mean,
can’t
?” She tried to jerk out of his hold, but he was strong as hell.

“Because it’s stupid to rush headlong back into danger without—”

“Don’t call me stupid.” She twisted until she was free.

“Then don’t act like a damn fool.” His voice bounced around the cove. The eagle took off with a giant flap of disgust.

She stabbed her fingernail in his breastbone and jabbed him with each word. “Do. Not. Yell. At. Me.”

He winced and carefully removed her nail from his chest. He towered over her and his face hardened into a mask of bitter fury. He should have terrified her.

Why didn’t he terrify her?

“Sorry.” Even with the drawn-back upper lip he looked shocked by his own words. “But you can’t just waltz home as Anna Silver without putting yourself in danger. You have to assume they’re watching the airports and borders.”

She shook her head. “This isn’t Watergate. Who the hell do you think we’re dealing with?” She started to brush past him. This was insane. He was insane.

“My PI checked into the company your dad worked for—the Holladay Foundation. They raise money for injured vets.”

Please don’t be stealing from wounded soldiers, Papa.