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“You weren’t fighting this morning.”
Silence filled the darkened belly of the plane as it rocked gently on the water. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she said finally.
“Yes,” he said. “They do.” He moved past her, pushing open the door. It was dark outside, and the smell of the sea was strong. Could she shove him out the door and slam it shut, like Hansel and Gretel tossing the wicked witch into the furnace? He wasn’t likely to end up being gingerbread.
“Are we going to swim for it?”
“We’re tied up at a dock—you won’t even get your feet wet. Come on.”
“Lucky me,” she muttered, trying to stand. There was just enough room
do so, but her knees were wobbly, and there was nothing to hold on to as she felt herself falling.
Nothing but the arm that caught her, wrapped hard around her waist, bringing back the memory of that morning with shocking swiftness. She could even hear his words in her head—soft, seductive words.
“I’d rather you didn’t drown,” he said, lifting her over the threshold of the plane and setting her on the broad dock. He followed after her before she even had time to consider running.
“That’s right, you’ve already saved me from a watery grave, haven’t you?” she said, pulling herself together. “Why?”
“To find the urn.”
Ask a stupid question, get the wrong answer. He was still holding her, and if she thought she had a chance in hell of shoving him into the icy-cold waters of Puget Sound she would have tried.
“How far do we have to walk?”
“I have a car.”
“Of course you do. Where’s the pilot? Did you cut his throat and dump him in the sound?”
“I’d have a hard time finding pilots if I made a practice of doing that.”
“Maybe you were just taking out your frustrations on him, since you can’t kill me.”
Silence, deep and dark like the Pacific night stretched between them, and a light mist began to fall. “I can kill you, Summer. If I have to.”
She could see him now. There were no houses around to provide light, an oddity in itself. She would have thought every single inch of waterfront on Bainbridge would have been developed. But a slender quarter moon was out, and she could see his face, as expressionless as his voice. And she had no doubt at all he could do just as he said.
He took her arm, and she didn’t bother trying to free herself. He led her up the steep incline to the road, not much more than a narrow dirt track, and she barely looked at the car he bundled her into. The numbness was slowly beginning to recede, the numbness that had taken over her body from the moment he’d let her go in the bedroom, the numbness that had shut her down completely on the small plane. Anger was spiking through, shards of fury splintering the dazed calm. He’d lied about everything: why shouldn’t he be lying about her sister, as well? Maybe Jilly was still stuck in the Shirosama’s pudgy white claws, and maybe Summer would have to take desperate steps to save her. Steps that would doubtless involve getting on another airplane of her own free will.
She could do it for Jilly. She could do anything for Jilly. Including smashing the son of a bitch beside her unconscious while she ran.
He drove too fast, as always, but by now she was getting used to it. She had no intention of giving him directions to the well-hidden family house, but of course he didn’t need any. With calm resignation she watched him turn up their long, overgrown driveway.
No one had been in the house for months. Lianne had forgotten it existed, and Summer was the one who owned it, loved it, cared for it. Even if she hadn’t made it back since the fall.
It would serve Taka O’Brien right if someone had broken in and taken the urn and everything else of value. Serve him right if the Shirosama had somehow managed to find this place first.
Her father had died long ago, and even his meager family was gone. But Summer did have the house, even though it was in the name of the trust Summer’s grandmother had set up for her before he died. Summer never touched the money, any more than she accepted handouts from her stepfather. But she had taken the house.
Taka pulled the car in front of the old place, hidden by the tall grass and overhanging cedars, and she climbed out, not waiting for him this time. Rain was coming down more heavily now, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that she was coming home, despite the upheavals of the last God knew how many hours or days.
She trailed after him up the wide front porch. Leaves were scattered across it, along with some broken twigs, and the curtains were pulled tight. No one had been there looking for a lost Japanese artifact. No one had been there at all.
“Are you going to smash a window or break the lock?” she asked idly.
“I have a key.”
She didn’t bother asking how—he had an answer for everything. He unlocked the heavy front door and pushed it open, and she froze.
