Surviving Ice (Burying Water 4)

I shove a piece of chicken in my mouth to give myself an excuse not to answer, shooting her with a warning look. She gives me a slight nod in understanding and then purses her lips, signifying that she understands. That she won’t push anymore.

But it’s too late. Her words have already infiltrated my mind. I wouldn’t have cared if she’d brought up the pile of human scum that I’ve dispatched on Bentley’s orders. Those lives don’t keep me up at night.

At least, they haven’t before. Now that I doubt Bentley’s motives, that’s starting to change. I’m beginning to wonder if all my assignments have had more to do with money and less to do with saving lives. I push those worries aside, though, because if that’s true, then I’ve become nothing more than an unwitting murderer.

But how the fuck does this woman know about my ghosts?

The small, round face that has lingered in my mind for almost six years. She would have been twelve now.

Dakota and Esmeralda chatter easily through the rest of dinner, while both Ivy and I stew in our own inner turmoil. I push my food around until Ivy stands and collects her plate—her food uneaten—and swipes mine out from under me. “We’re heading out,” she announces. “Thanks for dinner.” With a heavy sigh, she adds, “It was nice meeting you.”

Esmeralda beams, her gaze shifting between the two of us, settling on me once again. “You know what you need to do, Sebastian.”

“Excuse me?” An eerie chill skitters down my back. Just hearing my name on her tongue bothers me.

She nods. “You know.”

I want to grab the woman and shake her. What do I need to do?

Punish Scalero for the crimes he’s committed?

Punish Bentley for what he’s allowed to happen?

Turn myself in for what I’ve done?

Tell Ivy everything?

“Okay, see you guys later!” Dakota waves and continues with her conversation.

I trail Ivy to the kitchen in a daze, where she scrapes the food off the plates and dumps them into the dishwasher, kicking the door shut on her way by.

She grabs my keys from the kitchen counter. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” She’s clearly on a mission.

Chewing the inside of her cheek for a moment in thought, she finally answers, “To fix one of my anchors.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

IVY

Fausto and his guys have cleaned up and left, leaving behind nothing but this cold, sterile white cave and the stench of fresh paint.

I drop the box at my feet. It’s every last spray paint can I have. They clatter noisily against each other with the impact.

Sebastian’s boots clomp against the ground as he wanders over to stand next to me, arms folded across his chest, staring at the wide white canvas in front of me. He hasn’t said much since leaving Dakota’s, appearing as disturbed by Esmeralda’s intrusive words as I feel. Though I’m not sure for the same reasons.

How the fuck did she know about anchors? As soon as she said it, I knew exactly what she meant. She had to be talking about Sebastian, and this shop, because they’re the only two things keeping me in San Francisco right now. One old—this shop—and one new, who found me. Sebastian found me.

And someone I lost recently, who loves me dearly . . .

Ned.

Would Ned approve of Sebastian? He didn’t approve of most people, so I find that hard to believe. Then again, Sebastian’s not like anyone I’ve ever met.

I want to race back there and shake Dakota until she admits that she fed that loony tune all my personal information before dinner, that they’re just fucking with my head. But I know Dakota well enough to know that she’d never do that. She actually believes in that stuff.

And she’s almost made me a believer. Almost.

So then, what do Esmeralda’s words to Sebastian mean? By the set jaw and the stiff back and the way his eyes keep drifting elsewhere, she hit a raw nerve with him, too.

Who is the “she” Esmeralda referred to? Is Sebastian in love with her?

Suddenly, Sebastian turns to catch my gaze. I want to ask him what he blames himself for. I want to ask him about this ghost. I want to ask him all kinds of questions.

Instead, I reach for a can of black paint. With his eyes on my back, I close in on the longest wall in Black Rabbit, a solid mass of white with not a single window to break it up.

All it takes is a single swipe with my finger on the nozzle, the inky black marring the canvas in a long line, and I already feel better. “Ned would hate the white.” I point to the expanse of blank wall behind me. “But this . . .” I exhale with a sense of relief. “He’d be all for this.”

“You’re going to need a lot more paint,” Sebastian murmurs, a hint of a smile on his lips now.

He’s right. I will. And capable hands.

Luckily I know where to get both.

I pull out my phone.

“Why did you have all these extras lying around?” Joker asks, rubbing his bald head with one hand as he shoves a slice of pizza in his mouth. It’s long since cold, but no one around here minds cold pizza.

“Because I’m da shit,” Fez hollers, and I roll my eyes, sharing a look with Joker and Weazy. I don’t say anything, though. Fez has earned his status as a decent friend to me. Within twenty minutes of my texting the guys to see if they’d be into helping me around here, they showed up with their entire supply of paint cans, and they’ve worked next to me all night.

I step back now and take in the long eastern wall in Black Rabbit, and the mesmerizing kaleidoscope of colors staring back at me. Some of the original paint remains. It’s still there in the background, peeking out between the loops of letters, incorporated into the whites of eyes and the collars of shirts, but it’s nowhere near as overbearing as it used to be.

Now the cold, sterile white complements my wild side nicely.

In the center, I’ve sketched another depiction of Ned, his devilish grin filling up the bottom half of his face, his braids resting on either shoulder. Weazy did one of his infamous jungle scenes, except the asshole added a barely dressed Asian girl swinging from a rope. The blue streak in her hair is telling.

The rest of the sketches are different scenes from San Francisco—the Golden Gate Bridge; a trolley speeding down one of the steep streets and into a pit of fire. That’s Fez’s addition.

We have so much still to do—I’ve decided I want to cover the ceiling, too—but the sun’s coming up soon, we’re out of paint, and everyone’s tired.

“Hey, Ivy.” Joker leans in next to me as I stoop to collect the empty cans. “Was that a gun I saw tucked into the back of your guy’s jeans?”

“Yeah. Probably.” I glance back over my shoulder at Sebastian, who stands like the soldier he once was by the propped-open door—we had to get some air in here; the fumes were getting to be too much. He’s been stationed by that door without complaint all night, as if he knew how important it was for me to do this, scaring away any curious wanderer with a simple look. I guess he wanted his gun within reach, just in case.

Though, that doesn’t explain why he had it lying on the windowsill last night.

I wander over to him, pressing myself up against his chest. He’s so hard to read most times; right now, he’s impossible. “What do you think?”