Daughter of Deep Silence (21 page)

I
’ve barely made it home and up to my room when the doorbell rings. Carefully I tiptoe across the hall, pushing aside the curtain to look outside. There’s a cop car in the driveway. I curse under my breath and dash into my bathroom where I peel off my wet clothes, running a brush through my hair before pulling on a robe.

Shepherd’s already at the door when I reach the stairs. “Detective Morales,” I hear him say. She says something in return that causes him to chuckle as he steps aside to let her in.

My pulse jumps. I can only assume she’s here because of the
Libby Too
. But what I don’t know is whether someone saw me. I have no idea how much Morales knows and she’s not likely to give any hints. She’s too good to make that mistake.

I retreat around the corner and close my eyes. Taking a second to put myself in character before calling, “Sorry! I was in the shower.” I start down the steps but pull up short when I see Morales in the foyer. “Oh! Detective Morales,” I exclaim. I tilt my head to the side, concerned. “Everything okay?”

She isn’t wearing a uniform and her hair’s scraped back haphazardly, as though she’d been called out of bed. Even though it’s muggy outside, she’s wearing a sweatshirt with a faded and worn logo from Carolina. Her eyes sweep the foyer, and when they land on me, her expression slides toward formality, any humor left over from her quip with Shepherd erased.

She nods rather than saying hello and then dives right in. “There’s been an accident down at the marina and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

I frown, feigning confusion. “I’m fine—why would you be worried?”

She keeps her eyes trained on me, waiting to gauge my response as she says, “Your father’s yacht, the
Libby Too
, pulled free from her slip, caught fire, and sank.”

I let my jaw drop, as though trying to find words through the shock of such news. “I . . . Oh my goodness.” I look toward Shepherd, who says nothing, just watches me. “Was anyone hurt?”

Morales shakes her head. “There haven’t been any reports of casualties.”

“Well, that’s good.” I sigh in relief. “Here,” I say, moving down the rest of the stairs. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

I don’t expect her to take me up on the offer and am surprised when she nods. “Some tea would be great—thanks.”

I lead her through the house to the kitchen, Shepherd trailing in our wake. “So what happened?” I gesture for her to take a seat at the island and busy myself with the kettle.

“We don’t have a full report yet,” she says. “One witness says they thought they saw a young woman headed toward the yacht late this evening—that’s why I wanted to stop by tonight and make sure you’re okay.”

The unasked question hangs in the air for a moment, the only sound the clicking of the pilot light on the stove before the soft
whump
of the gas catching. “Of course, I’m glad you did,” I finally say, straightening. I pull down a selection of teas for her to choose from.

She waits until I’ve turned to face her before saying, “I’m sorry I have to ask this, but where were you tonight, Libby?”

My eyes flick to meet Shepherd’s. He leans against the doorjamb, silent. His expression is an impassive mask, but his gaze burns holes through me as he too waits for the answer. I clear my throat. “I . . . uh . . . I was with Grey Wells.” I pretend to be uncomfortable with the admission, as though I’ve done something wrong. “We were . . . out.”

She doesn’t immediately say anything, letting the silence stretch. Hoping I’ll fill it. But I know better than that. I’ve trained myself to be comfortable with the silences. “Other witnesses at the marina say they saw a man walking around the
Libby Too
’s slip,” Morales adds. “Middle-aged, skinny. Anyone you know?”

I look to Shepherd. “Could it have been the caretaker?”

He shakes his head. “He’s captaining another yacht down to the Caymans this week.”

“That’s good,” I say. “I mean, that he’s okay.”

Morales considers me a long moment. Her demeanor is more reserved than last time we spoke and I can’t decide whether it’s the late hour or something more. She seems somehow suspicious of me but I can’t figure out why. It makes me uneasy. Without taking her eyes off me, she says, “Shepherd, do you mind giving us a moment?”

He lifts his eyebrows, clearly not pleased at the request. But then he shrugs, pretending otherwise. “Sure,” and takes his time retreating down the hallway.

It can’t be a good sign that she wants to talk to me alone and I busy myself with the teakettle, pulling it from the stove and pouring a mug of hot water for her. I set it in front of her along with a few tins of tea, but she ignores it.

Instead, she pulls a small plastic Baggie from her pocket. The word
EVIDENCE
is emblazoned in red across the top. She places it on the counter. “Do you recognize this?”

Inside is a gold ring, the face of it scratched and crusted with dirt. The edge of the O’Martin family crest is just visible. Immediately I reach for my ring finger, finding only empty skin instead of the familiar hard metal band. Something slithery and cold starts deep in my gut, pressing outward.

I nod, mind whirling. “Yes. It’s mine, but . . .” I frown, trying to remember when I’d last taken it off. It had been the night I’d told Shepherd the truth. I’d held it up to the mirror and then set it down on the bathroom counter. I don’t recall ever putting it back on.

Which means someone must have taken it.

My pulse thunders in my ears. “Where did you find it?”

“Do you remember when you were last wearing it?” she asks instead of answering. I clench my teeth—it’s an old trick, avoid divulging information by responding to a question with more questions.

I shove a hand into my hair, dislodging droplets of water that fall against the counter. “A few days ago?” Morales watches me closely and I struggle to figure out the best approach here. How much to admit. If I let her think someone broke in, she might push for me to file a report, which will only mean more questions. Maybe even an investigation and dusting for fingerprints.

That’s the last thing I need.

“I noticed it was loose when I rescued Mrs. Wells. I kept meaning to take it in to be resized . . .” I let the thought trail off, leaving it as vague as possible. “How did you end up with it?”

This time Morales relents and answers. “One of the officers found it down at the marina. By
Libby Too
’s slip. It was caught on a cleat for one of the mooring lines.”

She pauses and it takes all my concentration to keep from recoiling at the information. My lungs constrict, making breathing difficult. Someone had not only taken my ring, but planted it at the marina. Probably when they untied the
Libby Too
and set her adrift to catch fire and sink.

I clutch at the edge of the counter. If I’d died, this ring would have been evidence that I’d been there. Maybe even been the one to unmoor the ship. They’d probably intended for it to look like some sort of elaborate suicide attempt.

“I must have lost it when I went to check on the
Libby Too
the other day. You know, with the caretaker gone and all,” I force myself to say. “Like I said, it was loose. Please thank the officer for finding it,” I tell her. “My father gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday. It means a lot to have it back.” I shift toward the foyer, hoping she’ll get the hint.

She frowns, as though still not satisfied by my answer, and for a moment I think she’ll press the issue. But finally she nods and I lead her back through the house. “The insurance company will want the police report,” she says once we reach the front door. “I’ll have someone drop it by when it’s ready.”

“Thank you.” My cheeks strain with the effort of smiling as I pull open the door.

“Let me know if you think of anything else.” She says it more as a standard formality, but then her eyes sweep over me again and she pauses on the threshold. “Libby, if you’re in trouble, you know you can call me at any time, right? You have my cell number.”

I’m so surprised by the sudden earnestness of the statement that I don’t know how to respond.

“Don’t forget to lock up,” she adds. She glances over my shoulder, nodding good-bye, and that’s when I realize Shepherd’s in the foyer behind me.

“Good night, Detective,” he says, coming to stand beside me. “We appreciate you stopping by.”

She grins. “Night, Mr. Sheep.”

The minute the door closes, Shepherd grabs my arm. “What the hell are you doing?”

I hiss in pain as his fingers dig into the fresh cut from the broken glass on the
Libby Too
.

His eyes widen and his grip immediately eases. But when I try to pull away, he keeps hold of my wrist, yanking the sleeve of my robe up before I can stop him. A bright smear of blood runs toward my fingertips.

He lets out a long breath. “Frances—”

“You shouldn’t call me that,” I bite at him. I jerk my hand away, yanking down my sleeve.

“I’m not calling you Libby,” he snaps back. After a beat of silence during which we glare at each other, he eases back, letting out a long breath. “We should get that cleaned up. Who knows what kind of bacteria’s in the water at the marina.”

I freeze, eyes meeting his. “I don’t know what you mean—”

He snorts, cutting off my protest. “You smell like salt water, not shampoo. Don’t think Morales didn’t figure it out either.” He starts toward the kitchen and I chase after him, panic setting my heart racing.

“Wait—what do you think Morales figured out?”

He pulls out a small first-aid kit, placing it on the counter. He leads me toward the sink, turning on the water and holding my arm underneath. Hissing at the pain, I swallow a few more times before again asking, “What did Morales figure out?”

“Not all of it,” he says, focused on cleaning the cut. “Not the big stuff. But she’s smart and she pays attention. And she clearly thinks there’s something wrong—she has a soft spot for orphans who could use some help.”

The statement catches me off guard and I let it sink in a moment. “Is that how you know her so well?”

He lets go of me, busying himself with pulling out strips of gauze and alcohol from the first-aid kit. “After the
Persephone
I got in trouble around town.” He swabs at the cut, his touch featherlight.

“Doesn’t take much for most of our neighbors to call the cops on a kid who looks like he’s not from around here.” It comes out both bitter and resigned. He lifts a shoulder, gaze meeting mine again. “Morales took a special interest. Started looking out for me.”

He considers me for a moment. “She’s someone you can trust.”

I’m already shaking my head. “Out of the question.”

“What happened on the
Libby Too
?”

“Nothing.” I pull my arm away. “It doesn’t matter,” I add.

He barks out a laugh. “Sounds to me like you were almost killed.”

“I’m fine,” I grit out between clenched teeth.

“This is getting too dangerous.” He runs a hand over the top of his head. “The
Libby Too
catching fire and sinking with you on board—that sounds an awful lot like someone trying to hurt you.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Then I guess the sooner we figure out and expose the truth, the better.” He’s about to protest but I cut him off, steering the discussion in a new direction.

“And about that, I found something at Grey’s I think will help. There’s an envelope taped to the back of a picture frame in his room and I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the
Persephone
. I found it when I was over there earlier but didn’t have the chance to grab it.”

I step forward so that I’m having to look up at him, and bite my lip. “Just a little more time—one more day,” I ask, as though begging permission. Knowing this will all be much easier if he believes he has a say in the matter. “Let me get that envelope and see what’s inside. Then we can figure out what to do with Morales.”

He presses his lips together, eyes searching mine.

“I’ll be safe,” I tell him. “I promise. I know what I’m doing.”

Finally, his shoulders drop and he nods. I smile, wondering why he thinks he can trust me. Haven’t I already proven that everything about me is a lie?

T
he next morning I dig up the clone to my cell phone I lost the night before and charge it up before making a few calls. Thanks to chatty Mindy Gervistan in Senator Wells’s office, I learn that the Senator and his wife will be at the dedication of a new war monument up in Charleston that afternoon. It’s the kind of event at which there will be boundless media opportunities, which means Grey will be expected to attend as well.

Once I’m sure they’ve all left, I make my way up the beach and knock gently on the kitchen door. As I’d expected, the housekeeper greets me with a broad smile and a hug. “Get out of that heat,” she says with a laugh, hauling me inside.

“Thanks.” The air-conditioning hits like a frigid wall and I put on my best-mannered girl-next-door face. “Is Grey here?” I ask, grinning shyly.

Her forehead furrows with concern. “I’m afraid not, sugar. He’s up in the city with his parents all afternoon.” I bite my lip and she adds, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “It’s just that I think I left my phone up in his room yesterday.” I sigh. “I guess I’ll just come back later and . . .”

“Nonsense!” She waves a hand, both cutting me off and gesturing toward the stairs. “Go on up and look.”

“You don’t mind?” I ask

She shakes her head and chuckles as if the very notion were ridiculous. I smile as I make my way through the house. It’s amazing the doors that open when you save someone’s life.

Once in Grey’s room I act quickly, jumping onto his bed and snatching the frame from the wall. I rip the envelope free, surprised to find that it’s bulky and heavy. I stare at it a moment before shoving it into my purse. After another quick circuit of his room, I make sure the picture is straight on the wall and that his sheets are smooth.

Then I pull out my phone and jog back down the stairs. “Found it,” I tell her, holding it up as I enter the kitchen.

“Oh, good. How about some tea before you head home?” she offers.

“No thanks, I don’t want to get in your way.” I start for the door and then hesitate. “And um . . . do you mind not mentioning to Grey that I stopped by?” I bite my lip, letting my cheeks pinken with a blush. “It’s the second time I’ve left my phone here by accident and don’t want him thinking I’m an airhead.” I fight to smother a smile—the kind that makes it clear how enamored I am with Grey and want him to think the best of me.

As I’d hoped, this delights the housekeeper. Everyone loves to root for romance. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

If only she had any idea just how dark my secrets really are.

To avoid the reporters, I jog back to the O’Martin estate along the beach, feeling the weight of the envelope in my purse with every step.

I’m not surprised to find Shepherd waiting for me in the kitchen. “You get it?”

I nod, out of breath, and pull the envelope from my purse. Without hesitation, I rip the end open and tip the contents out onto the counter. It’s an old cell phone, wrapped in a waterproof case. My heart begins to hammer as I pick it up, turning it over in my hands.

It’s an older model, clunky and heavy. But I still remember how new and advanced it seemed when Grey first showed it to me four years ago.

Grey treads water less than a foot in front of me, and with every swish of his arms and legs, I feel the sweep of currents from his movements buffeting against my body. It’s a perfect day in the Virgin Islands: impossibly blue sky, perfectly pristine beach, water clear as glass. In the distance, the cruise ship sits at anchor, waiting for all the passengers to return so it can start the long ocean journey back up to Bermuda.

“I want to try something,” Grey says, holding up his cell phone in its waterproof case. Droplets of water glisten from his eyelashes, and when he blinks they sprinkle to the surface.

“We should probably get back,” I say, anxious. There are only a handful of stragglers behind us and we still have a decent swim back to the launches.

When he grins, it does something to my insides. The tips of his fingers brush against my bare side, tiny pinpoints of heat searing through me. “It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

One of his legs tangles mine, the inside of his knee pressing against the inside of my thigh and I nod. The last thing I hear him say is, “Trust me,” before he pulls me below the surface.

I’m caught off guard and don’t even have a chance to take a deep breath. I’m about to push against Grey and kick toward the surface when his palm cups the back of my head, gently pulling my face toward his.

His lips meet mine and then I feel the pressure of air. Surprised, I open my mouth and then I’m breathing. I inhale slowly, the heat of air from his lungs heady and intimate. The only sound is the thumping of my heart, the rush of air as it passes from one of us to the other.

The salt water doesn’t even sting my eyes as I open them and find Grey watching me. Our bodies are almost fully intertwined now, arms and legs twisting around waists and hips to keep us pressed together. All except for the one hand that he holds outstretched, his camera phone tilted toward us to record the moment.

His lips move against mine and at first I think it’s a kiss until I feel the vibrations of noise.
I love you
. He says it again until he’s sure I understand.
I love you.
I swallow his words, breathing them in so that they will sing through my veins always.

And then, because my body can no longer contain the euphoria of emotion, I grin, throwing my head back, and a trailing bubble of laughs breaks between us.
I love you too!
I shout through the water, imagining that, like the call of a whale, these words will echo throughout the ocean.

He kisses me then. On the mouth, the chin. The hollow at the base of my throat and along my collarbones. As he pushes me to the surface, his mouth carves memories across my flesh.

My finger trembles as I press at the power button, not knowing what to hope for. Would I want to see those pictures of us again? After everything else, would he have even kept them?

And why hide them away?

“Battery’s dead,” Shepherd points out needlessly when the screen remains blank. I bite back a sarcastic retort and examine the plug. Of course it’s several generations old, which means having to find the right charging cord.

With a sigh of frustration, I begin searching through the kitchen drawers. Growing up we always had a junk drawer in the kitchen where we stuffed odds and ends like batteries, random tools, old power cords, loose change, and other detritis that accumulated on the counter. Once a year my father would tip it out and let me keep the money in exchange for sorting through it all.

My lips twitch at the memory. How my father would make a big production of carting the drawer over to the kitchen table. How he’d sit next to me, pretending to be a pirate in search of treasure as he helped me paw through the debris. How he was able to turn something that should have been a chore into an adventure.

“What are you thinking about?” Shepherd’s question breaks me from the memory.

“Nothing really,” I mumble, still intent on my search. “Why?”

“You looked . . .” He frowns, searching for the right word. “Happy.” This makes me pause and I glance up at him, meeting his eyes. “It’s a good look on you,” he adds. “You should be happy more often.”

The comment takes me aback. “I didn’t realize I wasn’t.”

He shrugs. “I think I have a charger that’ll work up in my room,” he says, changing the subject. He starts out of the kitchen, motioning for me to follow.