Dark Waters (2013) (3 page)

With shaking hands, she unlocked her door and stepped inside, then slid the deadbolt home. She slipped out of her pink high-heeled sandals and dropped her keys on the side table. The house was empty. Frigid. Or maybe that was just her.

Unable to settle, she picked up her cell, which she’d left charging, and saw that her father had called. She didn’t want to talk to him.

Leftover emotions mixed with scrambled memories from a time in her life she worked hard to forget. Peter had brought it all crashing back like a bucket of water to the face. It wasn’t like she’d never had sex. She’d
had
sex. It was just a long, long time ago.

Damn
.

She walked into the kitchen and poured herself a large glass of white wine and took a big gulp. Gazing out the window, she
watched the shadows of her secluded back garden. Shadows didn’t scare her.

She spent a lot of time pretending to be normal. It was how she coped. But that didn’t stop memories of a night that should have been one of her happiest of her adolescent life, turning into an awful twisted nightmare. It had been bad enough with her father getting arrested for stealing a million bucks and causing a scandal that had put their family in the news for months. But one night of violence had ripped away her defenses and left her raw and bleeding. A few days later, she’d tried to end all the pain and anguish by going for a midnight swim in a storm-tossed ocean. Luckily, she’d been rescued by a fishing boat. Unluckily, she’d been locked up in a psych ward for a week.

But she hadn’t needed a psychological evaluation to cure any suicidal tendencies. That startling revelation had crashed over her head along with the first wave. She’d been in pain but she hadn’t wanted to die. There were other ways of running away and, over the years, Anna had perfected them all.

The doorbell rang and she jolted away from her memories. Putting the wine on the counter, she grabbed her phone so she could dial 911 if Peter had come back to claim something he thought he was entitled to. The sight of two uniformed cops on her doorstep made her stop short. In an instant she was catapulted back to that awful day when she’d been seventeen and the police had arrived to arrest her father.

They’d ripped her life apart and she was still trying to put the pieces back together.

She opened the door. “Can I help you, Officers?” Her voice sounded high-pitched and frightened, and she stiffened her spine.

The older guy’s mouth tightened, steeling himself for something. “Anna Silver?”

She nodded, standing back to let them inside.

“Daughter of Davis Silver?”

Oh, God. What’s he done this time?
“Yes.”

“I’m afraid we have some bad news.”

Her lungs stopped working properly and she had to breathe deep to draw out enough oxygen. The cops looked out of place in her floral living room, with its satin throw cushions and white couches. The older guy cleared his throat and the younger one refused to meet her gaze.

“Chicago Transit Authority contacted us earlier. There’s been a terrible accident, ma’am. Your father died.”

The world whirled as the floor rushed up to meet her. She grabbed the back of the couch.

“Are you OK, ma’am?” Helping hands maneuvered her onto the sofa.

Was she all right? Of course she wasn’t all right. The younger one fetched a glass of water, but she put it straight down on the floor when her hand shook so much it spilled over the lip. Her father couldn’t be dead. There had to be some mistake.

“What happened?” she croaked.

“Your father fell under an ‘L’ train, ma’am.”

She flinched. The cops exchanged a harried look.

“Police are investigating claims he was being chased on the platform.”

She covered her mouth. This couldn’t be happening.

“Was your father in any trouble, Miss Silver?”

Her eyes snapped to his. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Is there anyone you can call to sit with you?” the older guy asked, at the same time edging toward the door.

“I’m fine.” She rose shakily to her feet. She just wanted them gone. “You’re very kind, but I’m sure you have a lot of important things to do.”

“As long as you’re sure you’ll be all right,” the younger one said.

Anna laughed, and it came out as sharp as broken glass. Cops had never been this considerate. Maybe they didn’t know who her dad was. “Will someone be in touch about the arrangements…?”

“About his body?” The older one wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “Call this number. Someone there will be able to help you with those details. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you for coming in person.” She held herself together as she showed the officers out and then closed the door. Her father was dead? She’d talked to him yesterday. He’d called her tonight. He couldn’t be dead, the idea didn’t seem real.

Her mother…

Oh, heck, she didn’t want to be the one to tell her mother.

Her mom had shut down when her father had been arrested nine years ago. Turned in on herself and stopped functioning as a human being, let alone a parent. For a short time Anna had become the adult, and then Ed Plantain arrived on the scene and picked up all the little broken pieces of their lives. Ever since her mom married Ed, she and Anna had been drifting inexorably apart, like big lonely land masses going in opposite directions.

And it was all so damn unfair.

They’d had a good life before her father stole that money. Sure, they’d been poor, but Anna had never really cared. But her dad had constantly promised he’d one day give them the world, shower her mother with diamonds and buy Anna her own computer. Her mom hadn’t wanted diamonds, she’d just wanted a car that ran. Money had caused the only real friction they’d had in their house and, in the end, it had blown the family to smithereens.

How would Katherine react after years of hatred? Would she let go of some of the vitriol that poured from her when anyone mentioned his name? Somehow Anna doubted it. She might be the one person in the world who gave a damn that he was gone.

She picked up her phone with fingers as spongy as cotton wool and checked her voice mail. Her heart cinched painfully when she heard his voice. “Anna, I’m in big trouble. But I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear it.”
Papa?
He sounded panicked. His breathing was rough as if he’d been running. “I’m on my way to the FBI offices,
but they’re too close. I’m never going to make it. They’re gonna kill me. They’re going to be looking for their money. I mailed you the printouts, but they don’t know where I sent it.
You
know. Take the information to the feds.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and held the phone so tight it was a wonder the casing didn’t crack. What had he been involved in? Something illegal?

“You need to get out of there until things quiet down.” The fine hairs on the nape of her neck stood upright. “Dammit, I’ve done it again.”
Please, no, Papa
. “I love you. And I’m sorry for everything. There’s only one person I trust besides you, you know that, right? Go to him, tonight. Tell him I’m cashing in those promises we made one another.” He was yelling now, and she pulled the handset away from her ear even as there was a rushing sound—her heart thundered when she realized it must be the train that had killed him—and then nothing. The white noise went on for another twenty seconds before it was cut off. The next message was a hang-up from him. She laughed hysterically, then pressed a hand to her stomach as it knotted tight. Bile started to sting the base of her throat. She bolted to the bathroom and heaved up wine and popcorn and her normal life. After five minutes with nothing left in her stomach, she washed out her mouth and pulled her hair back from her damp forehead.

She stared in the mirror at her red-rimmed eyes and wondered how, after she had constructed her life to minimize trauma, this could be happening all over again. Only worse this time because her father was dead.

And she might be in danger.

Brent Carver lay in bed listening to the surf outside his open window. The rhythmic pounding pulse helped calm the ragged unsettled feeling that clawed inside him. Sometimes it even let him sleep. Not tonight.

He shifted restlessly, sweat damp on his skin. The west coast was getting a blistering-hot summer that had him thanking God he wasn’t stuck in that shithole prison, sweating it out with a few hundred of his least best friends. He sat up in bed and swiped irritably at his too long hair.

Gina had liked it long.

Damn
.

He’d spent the past year trying not to think about Gina, or her murder, and yet memories snuck past his guard all the time. Her smile, her giving nature, her unwavering dedication to his undeserving ass. When he’d broken things off with her, he’d hoped she’d finally move on. Find herself a man she could marry and have babies she could spoil. But things hadn’t worked out that way, and no one regretted it more than he did.

He whipped back the covers and padded naked to the open window that faced the Pacific. It took a moment for his heartbeat to stop hammering. A moment for the burn in his chest to ease. At nearly forty years old, he’d spent half his life in prison and would never get enough of breathing in the fresh clean air of freedom.

The dark water before him stretched like a smooth satin sheet all the way to the horizon. But the calm tranquility was an illusion that disguised deceptive currents and gigantic swells, cold depths and wicked storm surges.

That ocean called to him—it always had. This sliver of coast was what he’d missed locked up in his cell for so many years. Not peace. Not serenity. Not pissing in a private bathroom. Huge rollers crashing home. Elements clashing like titans in his backyard. The abandon. The wildness. The energy. Prison had squeezed the need for that energy into a tiny corner of his mind and tortured him with it in his dreams. When he’d gotten out, he’d spent two days just staring at the ocean.
This
was where he belonged.
This
was where he needed to be. And no one was ever going to take it from him again. Being caged, being imprisoned, had almost wiped him out of existence, and the worst thing
was—it was his own damn fault. He’d taken a life and gotten what he deserved.

He’d been out four years now, but the smells, the memories, the sense of watching his back, were ingrained, tattooed on his brain like most cons wore ink. He’d found his salvation in a talent for painting, enough of a talent that he could afford a kick-ass mansion anywhere in the world. But he’d returned here, to the small remote strip of land on the western edge of Vancouver Island. The scene of the crime and the only home he’d ever known.

Maybe he should buy a yacht, learn to sail. But that sort of aimless wandering didn’t appeal, and his parole officer probably wouldn’t approve either. He rubbed his aching neck muscles and headed downstairs for a drink. He’d finish that last piece for the exhibition.

Exhibition
.

He shook his head in disbelief. Some fancy-schmancy museum in New York was giving
him
an exhibition. He opened the fridge and pulled out a beer and popped the top. His agent had worked some serious magic, wrangling that mother. Only trouble was the gallery wanted the elusive and mysterious
B.C. Wilkinson
to turn up in person to the opening. His agent had even taken care of a passport and special visa requirements.

Yeah, right
. He snorted. No fucking way. Still, Brent had learned years ago that it was easier to do what he wanted and beg forgiveness later. Not that he dealt much in forgiveness. Gina’s image smiled sweetly inside his head, but she was dead—stabbed to death by a homicidal maniac last year—and thinking about her wouldn’t bring her back.

His fist tightened around the neck of the bottle and he resisted the urge to hurl it at the wall. Prison had taught him iron control—he just hadn’t realized how much he’d need it on the outside. He headed onto his back porch, buck naked and glad of the fresh ocean breeze that cooled his overheated body. His nearest neighbor lived a quarter of a mile away, out of sight, over the bluff.
This region was too remote for passersby, and anyone with a boat would moor it in a sheltered cove, not at the mercy of Barkley Sound’s treacherous grasp. The moon was cloaked behind restless clouds that billowed like smoke across the sky. He was just about to sit his ass down when he saw a shadow flitter near the woods.

He had
visitors
?

No fucking way.

In prison he’d received enough death threats to take serious precautions with his safety. When some of the local thugs had been arrested last year, he’d let down his guard and thought the danger was over. He’d obviously thought wrong. What if it was his brother, Finn? Or the cops? He pressed his lips together. Finn knew better than to spook him and the cops had no reason to be sniffing around.

Something was going on.

No one made social calls on Brent Carver—no one without a death wish. He lived on a peninsula that, due to the rugged terrain, was only accessible by boat. There were about thirty locals living on this side of the inlet, but they were more likely to hand-feed rabid wolves than drop in for a beer.