Surviving Ice (Burying Water 4)

I ignore her sarcastic tone and rope an arm around her back, guiding her out of the restroom and toward the cash registers at the front, my eyes scanning every face that we pass.

While she’s checking out, I pull out the wallet I lifted, flipping it open to the picture ID.

Mario Scalero.

I warned Bentley to keep them away, but in a way I’m glad they didn’t listen. At least now I know that Scalero is a threat to Ivy, and I don’t think finding that video is going to change that. Another reason for me to stick close to her.

Ivy tosses a second duffel bag on the front porch, waving a hand dismissively. “I can’t deal with this mess for another second today. Are you almost done?”

I shut the door and test the key. The bolt fastens smoothly.

“Well, look at you.”

I hand her the key. She smiles sheepishly. “Thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So . . .” She hesitates over her words. “Dakota’s making dinner tonight. I’m heading over there now. If you’re hungry and you have nothing else to do, you’re welcome to come. As a thank-you.” She shrugs dismissively. “But if not, that’s cool, too. No big deal. Just thought I’d offer.”

She’s chewing on her lip. She wants me to come, but I think she’s afraid I’m going to turn her down, and I don’t think her ego can handle being turned down right now. Under that tough exterior, I’m beginning to see extreme sensitivity.

I scoop up her bags and march down the stairs without giving her an answer, scanning the street for any new cars that weren’t there when we arrived. There’s nothing, thankfully. Scalero and the other guy have backed off for the time being; Scalero’s likely preoccupied with the hospital and canceling his credit card, which, in hindsight, I wish I had used to pay for the locks, seeing as he helped bust them. But at least I used one to fill up my gas tank and buy lunch.

“Thanks. I’d love to come.”

She presses her lips together to keep me from seeing how much that pleases her. “Just to warn you, though, she’s a little bit out there.”

“I noticed.” The woman is stunning in a very natural way, but she had no qualms about lifting my shirt to see Ivy’s work thirty seconds after introducing herself to me. I tolerated it for Ivy’s sake. “How much of that weed in her greenhouse does she smoke?”

“So you noticed that, too,” she murmurs with a wry smile. “I think she’s always been a bit ‘spiritual.’ ” She uses her fingers to air-quote that word. “Even before she started smoking. Speaking of weed, how are you with seaweed?”

I chuckle. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

“She likes to experiment with strange ingredients. Last time I had dinner at her place, she made this seaweed salad. It wasn’t bad but . . .” She winces, then does a sideways glance of my body. “I doubt it’ll sustain you. Tell you what,” she says as she throws her purse onto the passenger seat. “Follow me to Safeway and I’ll grab some burgers and things, just in case.” She presses the button on her key fob to pop her trunk, but then frowns and slams it shut. “Oh, that’s right. There’s no room with all my other stuff in there.”

Other stuff? This is all I saw her bring from the house. “What stuff?”

“Just that shitty old computer from the shop.” She opens the door to her backseat and backs up so I can toss her duffel bags in. “I packed it up last night after you left. That and my kit . . . I bring it home with me every night, anyway, but thank God I left it in the car, or those assholes would have torn it apart. Oh my God.” She shakes her head. “I would have gone homicidal if they had fucked up my kit. That’s the only thing I own that I actually really care about.”

Her words drift as their meaning begins to sink in.

Her kit.

She brings her kit everywhere with her.

But . . . I frown. No. I saw the inside of it yesterday. There wasn’t any videotape in there. I would have noticed that.

“Hey.”

I look down to find her already sitting in the driver’s seat, seat belt on, engine cranked, staring at me. “Are you going to follow me?”

TWENTY-THREE

IVY

This was a terrible idea.

The cramped quarters, the quinoa and seaweed wraps; Jono, the homeless man Dakota invited over for dinner tonight.

All of it.

“This was a great idea! I’m so glad you’re all here with me tonight.” Dakota reaches out to squeeze my biceps with her left hand and Jono’s hand with her right, grinning at Sebastian, who sits across the small round salvaged teak table from her. Jono smiles in return, I think—it’s hard to tell because his face is covered by a beard that rivals Grizzly Adams’s. It’s a clean face, at least. Actually, he’s one of the cleanest homeless people I’ve ever come across. I wouldn’t have guessed that he had nowhere to live had he not enthusiastically announced it. Apparently he bathed at the public beach showers and changed into new clothes, donated by a friend today, all for this dinner. And he made a point of telling us about that, too.

“Sebastian, please, help yourself to more if you’re hungry. I’m sure your appetite is impressive.” Dakota throws a wink my way and I roll my eyes in return. She’s not the most subtle with her sexual innuendos.

He nods his thanks between mouthfuls of the hamburger I threw on the grill for us the second I saw what was on the menu tonight, seemingly protective of the left side of his mouth, where it’s slightly swollen. The fact that he stormed into the women’s restroom with a bloody lip, giving me that lame-ass excuse about running into a wall, has me a bit wary, but I figure it’s something I either don’t need to know about or don’t want to know about.

I’ll ask again later, maybe.

If I have a chance. He hasn’t said much of anything since we stepped inside the house, and I’m wondering if he regrets accepting this invitation. I wish I could read minds right now. Or at least his steely expression.

Jono doesn’t need encouragement, though, reaching over to take another helping.

“So, when did you two meet?” I ask casually.

“Just today,” he says, not bothering to wait until he’s done chewing to speak. “I was getting breakfast at the shelter when this vision strolled through with those squares.” He smiles at her. It doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s already madly lusting over her, as most guys do.

“Really. Just today.” I glare at her. This isn’t the first time I’ve sat at a dinner table with Dakota and one of her “friends,” people who, I swear, she seeks out based on their peculiarity. There was the séance lady, the worm collector, the puppeteer. And that’s just in the last two months. But never has she brought home a complete stranger.

As soon as I have a chance, I’m going to take Dakota by the arms and shake some sense into her. How much can she possibly know about this guy in ten hours? He could be a serial killer, and she invited him into her house! Is she planning on sleeping with him, too? With Dakota, you never know. And I don’t judge but . . . what the fuck, Dakota?

Suddenly I’m happy that Sebastian’s here. With a gun.