Submerged

by Dani Pettrey

  She smiled, her eyes somehow testing him. “It’s getting late.”

  His cue to leave.

  “Yeah. I should be going.” He got to his feet and stretched. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m good.”

  He wished he could say the same. He didn’t want to leave her, not with a thief on the loose. “I could bunk out on your couch for the night.” At least then he’d know she was safe and he’d sleep a whole lot easier.

  “No.” The word was clipped, curt.

  “Strictly platonic. I’m just worried about you.” Didn’t she know she could trust him?

  The angles of her face softened slightly. “I appreciate your concern, but that’s impossible.”

  His brow furrowed. Interesting choice of words. Impossible.

  She rubbed her temples. “Everyone would think . . .”

  He stepped closer. “What?”

  “Never mind.” She rubbed her arms. “I better get some sleep.”

  He contemplated pursuing the conversation, but she needed her rest, not something else to tax her. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Okay.” She shut the door, and through the window Cole watched her walk to the stairs and flip out the light.

  Cole sighed. He knew exactly what she was going to say. Everyone would think they’d been intimate, that she was back to her old ways.

  But that wasn’t her anymore. She was a new creation. It was time she started realizing it.

  He climbed in his truck as the upstairs light switched on.

  Father, I see Bailey struggling and I hate it. She’s a new creation, but she’s letting the past weigh her down. She’s running. She’s hiding. I want to see her settled, at peace. I want . . .

  I want . . . her back in my life so badly it hurts. The thought of never being with her again . . . it’s like a chokehold. How did I let this happen? This can’t happen. Change my heart, Lord. Please, change my heart.

  The air left his lungs in a whoosh. Can’t go there. Erase the possibility from your mind. Be her friend. That’s enough. Enough.

  The upstairs light clicked off and he slouched back into his seat.

  One by one the few remaining lights along Main Street followed suit, until the entire street lay shrouded in darkness.

  He’d stay and keep watch awhile. He needed the time to think.

  He was pacing the wooden floor when Kiril returned, a ski mask clasped tightly in hand.

  Something had gone wrong.

  Kiril shuffled his feet, his boots making that horrid scuffing sound against the floorboards. How many times had he asked him not to do that?

  “What happened?”

  “The girl”—Kiril cleared his throat—“she was awake.”

  “I told you to make sure she was in bed before you went in.”

  Kiril paled. “The lights were off . . . mostly. I . . . I made a mistake.”

  A mistake? The imbecile could have cost him everything. “Did she see you?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “But?” he asked through clenched jaw.

  “She called the cops.”

  Anger pulsated through him.

  “That boyfriend of hers, his friend is the deputy. He came over and walked around and . . .”

  He narrowed his eyes. What was Kiril holding back? “And?”

  “He left.”

  “Simply left?”

  Kiril nodded, perspiration beading on his thick brow. “I’m sorry, boss.”

  “You’re sorry.” He stalked to the window. He gazed out over the barren wasteland he was forced to endure until his plan was complete.

  “She didn’t see me,” Kiril repeated, his voice cracking.

  Must I do everything myself? “Please tell me you at least found the paper work.”

  “No, but she found something.”

  He turned. “Oh?”

  “I heard her say something about a sunken island.”

  “So she’s getting closer.” He exhaled, trying to vent the rage from his body to keep from killing Kiril. Another dead body was the last thing he needed.

  “You want me to take her out?”

  “No. I told you. It would draw too much attention.” It was the only reason Kiril was still breathing. Back home murder happened; few inquiries were made and then the matter simply vanished. But in this pathetic place every measly crime was earth-shattering.

  “But what if she figures it out? What if she finds it?”

  He let the gamut of possibilities run through his mind and then smiled. “Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “Huh?”

  It would save him the effort of hiring another team. He couldn’t hire just anyone. He needed qualified divers with experience in retrieving artifacts, needed people with loyalty. He thought he’d had that with Nik, but he’d been dead wrong. Perhaps waiting was the prudent thing. Give the girl time to figure it out, let her do the work, and then he could sweep in and reap the rewards.

  “Boss?” Kiril asked hesitantly.

  “Never mind.” This was obviously beyond the scope of Kiril’s understanding. He’d stick with the simplest of instructions from now on. “Continue to watch the girl. From a distance.”

  “Just watch?”

  “Yes.” He steepled his fingers. Perhaps Kiril’s blunder could play to his advantage. “Let’s see where she goes with this newfound information.”

  26

  Butterscotch wove in between Bailey’s feet as she made her way downstairs. She’d slept later than usual, and her growling belly was staging a protest. Sun poured through the front shop windows, reminding her she needed to dust.

  At least they were in for another gorgeous day. Her gaze fell to the pickup out front and recognition dawned. Cole. What is he doing here?

  Butterscotch meowed for breakfast.

  “Just a minute. If my coffee can wait, so can your milk.”

  She strode to the door, expecting to let Cole in, but he wasn’t there. That’s odd. She looked up and down the street, and across at Gus’s diner, which was still bustling with the breakfast crowd.

  As she approached the pickup, there was no doubt—it was definitely Cole’s truck, dented bumper and all. She peered inside and jumped.

  Cole was crunched up in the tiny cab, his face smashed against the steering wheel, one leg pressed against the gear shift, the other elevated on the passenger seat back. He looked adorable. Had he spent all night there? To make sure she was safe?

  Her heart squeezed. Stubborn man.

  Sunlight streaked across his face, and he shifted restlessly.

  She took one more glance up and down the street, found no one watching, and rapped on the window.

  It took a moment, but Cole opened his eyes—the haze of sleep still heavy in them. He sat up, his mouth open, clearly disoriented. Seeing her, he smiled and leaned over, unlocking the passenger door.

  She rested against it. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

  The fog gone, a pair of gorgeous green eyes stared back at her. “Morning.” He adjusted his misaligned clothes and ran a hand through his hair. “Sleep well?”

  “Very, though I doubt you can say the same.”

  “It wasn’t so bad.” He stretched and something popped.

  She winced. “That didn’t sound good.”

  “Ah, it’s nothing.” He stretched his neck side to side, revealing a large steering-wheel imprint.

  She laughed.

  He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  She indicated his cheek. “The steering wheel left its mark.”

  “Oh.” He grinned sheepishly and rubbed his skin.

  “Why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee? It looks like you could use one.”

  “All right. Don’t mind if I do.” He climbed from the truck, moving a bit gingerly at first, and followed her inside.

  “You didn’t have to stay,” she said over her shoulder, making her way to the kitchen.

  “I know.”

 
She pulled two mugs from the cupboard and poured them each a cup. “I was planning on making some pancakes. Mabel got another shipment of fresh blueberries in yesterday. Wanna stay for breakfast?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Cole set his napkin on the table. “That was delicious.”

  Bailey smiled at his appreciation for something as simple as homemade pancakes. “Glad you enjoyed it.” She lifted her plate and reached for his.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I got this. McKenna rule—he who cooks doesn’t do dishes.”

  “Is that so?” She handed him her plate and watched as he set about clearing the rest of the table.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He spun a plate on the tip of his finger before sliding it atop the pile already effortlessly balanced in his other hand, whistling as he worked.

  “And how often do you provide this entertaining service?”

  He grinned, twirling the butter knife in the air before catching it. “More often than I’d like to admit, but it’s better than eating my cooking.”

  She chuckled. “I’ll have to remember that.”

  The kitchen door creaked, and Cole turned.

  Much to Bailey’s surprise, he managed to keep the towering stack of plates in perfect order.

  With a smile, she looked to see who entered and her breath caught.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Tom said, looping a finger in his waistband. His gaze raked over her, and her stomach turned sour. There was nothing indecent about her sleeping attire—a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and an oversized T-shirt, but somehow he made her feel dirty with a single glance.

  “You weren’t interrupting. We were just having breakfast.” She fought the urge to explain. Tom wouldn’t believe her anyway. He’d already made up his mind about her—to him she’d always be Easy Lay Bay. She cringed at the horrid nickname.

  “Looks like a nice hearty breakfast.” Tom sauntered forward. “Always good after a lot of activity.”

  Cole lowered the stack of dishes to the table. “Like the lady said, we were just finishing breakfast.”

  “Right.” Tom took pains to draw the word out.

  Cole stepped between her and Tom. “Was there something you needed?”

  Tom tilted his head, gazing at Bailey over Cole’s shoulder. “Sheriff needs to see Miss Craig.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss it in detail, but suffice it to say, the sheriff has some news about your aunt’s crash.”

  “Agnes?” What news could there be?

  “He’d like you to drop by the station”—Tom’s gaze raked over her once more—“after you’re properly dressed, of course.”

  She swallowed the bile burning up her throat. “I’ll be over shortly.”

  Tom didn’t move, just stood staring at her, taunting her.

  “Anything else?” Cole took another step forward, quickly diminishing the space between him and Tom.

  What was he doing? Trying to make things worse by starting a fight? That’d be the flame that would ignite the already tentatively explosive situation into a grand spectacle for all to see. By lunchtime everyone in town would hear of how Tom had caught her and Cole red-handed, trying to play off a night of sex as an innocent breakfast. A fight between Tom and her supposed lover would only add fuel to the fire that would tear her apart all over again.

  Her heart physically ached—her chest tightened, strangling the breath from her. At least before she’d deserved the criticism, the harsh words, the cruel nickname, but this time she’d only tried to be nice. She should have known better. She’d let her guard down, and now she was going to pay.

  “I asked if there was anything else,” Cole said, the words clipped and precise.

  Tom seemed to be truly reveling in the moment. “Not a thing.” With a tip of his hat, he swaggered to the door and with one last grin was gone.

  Biting back tears, Bailey stood and grabbed the stack of dishes.

  Cole turned. “Let me get that.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  He reached for them.

  She clutched them tighter. “It’s fine.” To her mortification, her hands shook, rattling the silverware atop the pile. She spun toward the kitchen and the silverware tumbled with a clang to the floor. She bent, scrambling to pick them up. If she just kept moving . . .

  Cole knelt beside her and stilled her hand with his. “Hey.”

  She pulled away, grabbing the forks and springing to her feet. “Look, I’ve got to get ready and go see Slidell.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “And give Tom more ammo? No thanks.” She carried the dishes to the kitchen and flung them in the sink.

  “Don’t let Tom make you feel guilty about something that didn’t happen.”

  “That’s not the point.” She dumped in dish soap and turned the water on.

  Cole stepped closer. “It’s precisely the point.”

  Keep your distance. I’m not strong enough for this. Not now. Not with all that’s happening.

  She braced her hands on the counter. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. I’ve got to get ready, so if you could please leave.”

  “Bay?” The tenderness of his tone nearly unleashed her tears.

  “Please.” She shut off the water and started scrubbing the first dish she grabbed.

  “All right.” He stepped back. “Maybe we can talk later.”

  “We’ll see.” She kept scrubbing, knowing there wouldn’t be a later.

  27

  Cole strode across Main Street with one thing on his mind—finding Tom and trying, most likely futilely, to make him see the truth of the situation.

  The last thing Bailey needed was Tom Murphy spreading ugly rumors about her around town, rumors that would only compound her pain.

  Cole’s muscles gripped like a vise down his neck, spreading across his shoulders in a triangle of pain.

  Why was it guys slept around and got praised for it? A girl did and she was branded for life. Not that he approved of Bailey’s past behavior—it had flat-out broken his heart—but it was simply that, in the past. It had no bearing on the present. Bailey was beating herself up every day for things she’d done a decade ago. She was a new creation in Christ, yet she was letting the past suffocate her.

  He pushed through the station door, the noxious odor of alcohol and body waste nearly bowling him over.

  He looked to the holding tank. Samuel Hancock lay sprawled across the floor snoring, his clothes doused in liquor and vomit.

  Cole lifted a hand to his face and strode to the front desk. “Come on, Earl. At least give the man some clean clothes to wear, wash him off . . . something.” Give him a little dignity; show a grain of compassion.

  Deputy Earl Hansen glanced up from his paper. “I’m not touching that mess. Besides, maybe it’ll make him think twice before boozing so hard again.”

  Cole moved toward the bull pen, where the deputies had their desks. He needed to catch Tom before . . .

  Raucous laughter echoed down the hall.

  . . . it was too late.

  Cole rubbed the back of his neck. “Let me guess—Tom’s back there?”

  Earl grinned, his silver-plated tooth gleaming in the fluorescent beams.

  He strode the rest of the way down the hall and into the rear office hub, frustration barely tamped beneath the surface.

  Tom sat perched on the corner of Thoreau’s desk, a wide grin in place.

  Great. Cole grimaced. Now he had two to reason with.

  “Well, speak of the devil,” Tom said. “Ready to spill the nitty-gritty?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Well, all right.” Tom hopped down from the desk. “I knew you weren’t the pansy you pretended to be, that deep down you’re just like us.”

  Cole recoiled at the thought.

  “So . . .” Tom nudged him in the ribs. “She learn any new tricks over the years?”

&nb
sp; “Like I said, nothing happened.” He worked to keep his voice firm and even, not to give in to the urge to ream Tom out.

  Tom’s pleasure faded. “We’re back to that story.”

  “It’s not a story. It’s the truth. Nothing happened.” Maybe if he repeated it enough, it would finally sink in.

  Tom folded his arms. “Let me see if I got this right. You just happened to be at her place having breakfast, wearing the same clothes you had on yesterday, while she’s in her pj’s.” Tom glanced over his shoulder at Thoreau with brows raised, then back at Cole. “Is that what you expect us to believe?”

  Cole balled his fists, his knuckles cracking. Flashbacks of Tom and Thoreau in the high-school locker room carrying on about their exploits with Bailey raced through his mind. Disgust flooded over him, now as it had back then. Only now he’d be man enough to say something. Their days of talking about Bailey as if she were trash were over.

  Back then his pride had been wounded, his heart crushed by what she’d done, at who she’d become. He’d washed his hands of her, written her off as a messed-up girl, and moved on—leaving Bailey among the wolves to be devoured or self-destruct, whichever came first.

  Two years later she reentered his world, cornering him at Tag Newton’s graduation party wasted, as usual, and trying her best to seduce him. How far she’d fallen from the beautiful, bright-eyed girl he’d known and loved.

  He’d rejected her, of course, and done it kindly. Well, what seemed kind to an eighteen-year-old with a chip on his shoulder. He’d told her to go home or sober up, or something to that effect—his tone and distance making it clear he didn’t dally with girls like her.

  Like her. His own words made him cringe, the hurt in her eyes coming back to haunt him.

  If he hadn’t been so self-absorbed, if he’d have forgiven her for what she’d done to him two years earlier, if he’d been at all decent . . . he’d have gotten her a cup of coffee and seen her safely home, instead of passing her off to the next guy she’d hit up.

  She never spoke to him after that night, never looked him in the eye again. Not until he’d strode into Agnes’s shop last week asking for help.

  No wonder she hadn’t looked happy to see him.