Dark Water: A Siren Novel (11 page)

I had no idea what this meant, but his voice, though quiet, was steady. Certain. So much so that I resisted the automatic urge to dissuade him from whatever he was about to do in hopes that he wouldn’t regret it later.

I stayed perfectly still as he stepped toward me and kept my eyes focused straight ahead, on the zipper of his jacket. My breathing quickened as it neared. Soon it was so close, I could make out each tiny, silver tooth, every stitch of the white seam running along each side.

I could smell him, too—his soap, the saltiness on his clothes,
left over from working outside all day. I could feel his warmth. His breath soft against my forehead.

His arms circling my waist.

I closed my eyes and braced for the sudden jolt of energy … but it didn’t come. Instead of strengthening, the entire length of my body seemed to weaken, melt.

His arms tightened around me. I lifted mine and rested my palms against his chest. Feeling his heart beat faster, I slid my hands up, over his shoulders, around his neck. Sensing the slightest pressure against my back, I came forward until our torsos touched. When he trembled, I started to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me.

We settled against each other, his chin on top of my head, my cheek against his chest. I thought this was it, the thing he’d wanted to see—although I still wasn’t sure what exactly he was checking for—but then he moved again. His chin lifted. I raised my head as his breath traveled slowly down my ear, across my face.

You didn’t do anything wrong … this is happening because he wants it to.…

“Vanessa,” he whispered, his mouth nearing mine. “I—”

He stopped, pushed me away, and kept both hands on my shoulders, like I might lunge against him. Which, given the way every inch of my body ached the instant we separated, wasn’t out of the question.

“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, looked toward the living room window.
With the lights on inside but not outside, I couldn’t see past our reflections.

“I thought I heard something,” he said, a moment later. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” We stayed like that, his hands on my shoulders and mine on his arms, a few seconds more. When there was nothing to hear but crickets and leaves rustling, I asked gently, “Maybe you imagined it? To keep from doing something you weren’t sure you wanted to do?”

He looked at me, then offered a small smile. His hands were on my hips and I was reaching around his neck when a bright white light flashed through the room.

I froze. “Was that—? That looked like—”

Lightning
. That’s what I was about to say—but then it happened again. And twice more after that. The blinding bursts were so fast, I couldn’t see for several seconds after they were done. By the time my vision cleared, I was alone, and the back door was wide open.

“Simon?” I hit the light switch as I ran outside. The deck and part of the backyard illuminated in a dull yellow glow. Both were empty. I looked out at the lake, then up. The water was flat, calm. It glittered in the light of a half-moon, which shone down from a clear sky.

Whatever we’d just seen, lightning wasn’t it. I told myself to calm down as I found myself doing something I hadn’t done since Simon and I had been trapped at the bottom of this very lake nine months earlier.

I was listening. For Raina. Zara. The other sirens who’d served them in near death just as they had in life. I pictured them swimming, swarming around us, their limbs frail, their silver eyes blank.

But my mind fell silent. There was nothing to hear.

And then—footsteps. Hushed, urgent voices. Coming from the western side of the house. I bolted in that direction, aware that they could belong to anyone—trespassers, burglars, the fishermen from the other night—and that I had nothing to defend myself with, if necessary.

But I didn’t care. All I could think about was finding Simon.

I charged across the grass, careful to stay in the shadows. I crept along the far side of the deck and peered around the corner of the house. Seeing two figures running for the driveway, I started to go after them … but the side yard sloped up. And my body had to be running dry, because my muscles were tiring. I was still several feet from where the grass leveled off when I had to lower to a squat to catch my breath.

A car started. Headlights appeared overhead.

A hand clamped over my mouth, an arm across my abdomen.

I tore at both as I was yanked back, toward the deck, but fighting made me only weaker.

“Vanessa,” a familiar voice whispered. “It’s me.”

My body relented. Simon held me close as the headlights swooped across the yard. An engine roared and tires spun through gravel. The car, which we couldn’t see, flew up the driveway, out onto the road, and toward town.

“Who were they?” I asked, when he finally released me.

“I don’t know. But they dropped this.”

A small square brightened the darkness. In its center was an image of a couple. They held onto each other like they needed the kiss they were about to share like other people needed oxygen.

The square was a digital camera screen.

The couple was Simon and me.

C
HAPTER 9
 

“Y
OU’RE SO GETTING BACK TOGETHER.”

I handed Paige a stack of purple paper. “Did you hear anything else I said?”

“About the people spying on you? And the psycho stalker pictures? And the car tearing out of your driveway like there was a jet engine under its hood?” She took a leather menu from the tower in front of her and opened it. “Yes. How could I not, when all of that led up to the most important moment of the entire night?”

“When Simon followed me home?”

She shook her head. “That was nice, but I meant when he invited you to spend the night. With him.”

“It wasn’t an invitation,” I corrected. “Not like that. It was late. I was a little freaked out. He offered up his family’s guest room so I didn’t have to drive home by myself.”

“He might’ve
said
guest room, but he
meant
his room. That’s
totally where you would’ve ended up after talking for hours and being so comfortable, you fell asleep—or did whatever—together.” She shrugged. “You know it, I know it, and Simon definitely knew it.”

She sounded certain and I’d even omitted some key details about what had happened before the camera flashes lit up the living room—including how close Simon and I had been to kissing. Given the interruption, I hadn’t had enough time or mental clarity to figure out what it meant, so I wasn’t ready to share. It didn’t help that Simon hadn’t offered any explanation; his brain had automatically switched to analytic mode after the car sped away, and he made no mention of what had almost happened, before following me back to the beach house.

The only indication he gave that he hadn’t completely forgotten was when we reached the gate and he got out of his car to say good-bye. As he came toward the Jeep, I looked away to turn off the radio. It was only a split second, but it was enough time for him to lean through the open window, lift my hair away from my ear, and whisper six words.

I saw what I needed to
.

And then he left.

“Can we just focus for a second on the psycho stalker part?” I asked Paige now. “Please?”

She closed the menu and looked around the dining room to make sure the restaurant’s three brunch guests weren’t listening. When she turned back, the playful glint in her blue eyes was gone.

“Sorry,” she said quietly. “I want nothing more than for you to
be reunited with the love of your life … but I also like to think that, compared to last summer, this summer could actually be normal. Talking about psycho stalkers makes that difficult.”

“I understand. Believe me.”

She folded her arms on top of the stack of purple paper and leaned toward me. “Were there other pictures? Besides the ones they took last night?”

“Yes. We weren’t in them, thankfully, but neither was anyone else. They were just a bunch of ordinary nature shots—the beach, hiking trails, rocks. Without last night’s pictures, the camera could belong to anyone visiting Winter Harbor.”

“Do you think it belongs to the people you saw a few weeks ago? At the open house?”

“Maybe. That makes the most sense. But if so, why were they there so late last night? When the house is usually empty?”

Paige opened her mouth to respond. Before she could, a coffeepot appeared on the table between us.

“You guys look hard at work,” Natalie said, setting down two cups and a sugar bowl. “Thought you might need some extra fuel for that fire.”

“Thank you!” Paige beamed and sat up straight, clearly grateful for the distraction. “You’re the best. Isn’t she the best?”

Considering how long we’d known Natalie, I thought this was a generous assessment. But then, deciding I was still feeling lingering paranoia from our first meeting as well as new, likely unnecessary, concern that she’d just been listening to Paige’s and my conversation, I tried to push all doubt aside.

“She definitely has good timing.” I smiled as Natalie filled my cup. “Thanks.”

“No problem. So what are we tackling today? Backsplash tiles? Crown molding? Copper faucet fixtures?”

Paige’s head tilted to one side. “Copper. Huh. I hadn’t thought about that.”

I held up a leather folder. “New menus.”

“What’s wrong with the old ones?” Natalie asked.

“Exactly that,” Paige said. “They’re old. Ancient, actually. And made of laminated construction paper that used to be red but faded to gray, like, fifty years ago.”

“Did the menu change at all?” Natalie asked.

“Not the dishes,” Paige said, “but their names.”

Natalie glanced at the paper Paige held up. “Why?”

“For the same reason the paint changed. To breathe new life into Betty’s and attract new business.”

Natalie nodded. Slowly.

“What?” Paige asked.

“Nothing. New life is always good.”

I watched Paige’s eyes lower to the menu, her lips turn out. “It’s just …,” Natalie continued, “I don’t know if purple paper will make a difference.”

“Would pink be better?” Paige asked.

“It wouldn’t matter if you used every color of the rainbow. People don’t care what the menu looks like.”

I kind of agreed, but Paige’s face fell so fast, I had to interject. “If they don’t, they will as soon as they see how nice these are.”

“Maybe,” Natalie said. “But I doubt it.”

“What would you suggest?” I asked. “You worked at another restaurant, right? How was business there?”

“So good, people showed up at three o’clock to wait for us to open for dinner at five.” She looked at Paige, who stared at the stream of sugar she poured from the bowl into her coffee. “But it was a very different type of place.”

I waited for Paige to respond, or at the very least, look up. “A few tips wouldn’t hurt, would they?” I asked when she did neither.

Paige sipped her coffee, forced a smile. “Sure.”

“You know what? I’m so sorry. Forget I said anything.” Natalie started to back up. “Not only is this none of my business, I’m just a waitress. What do I know?”

The apology and excuse seemed to soften Paige, who finally looked away from her drink. “Probably as much as us. If you have any secrets to restaurant success, I’d love to hear them.”

Natalie glanced behind her. When her customers appeared content, she hurried back and dropped into the empty chair.

“The place was called Mountaineers, and it was a dive,” she said, her voice quiet but excited. “A hole in the wall—of a run-down shack that most people would normally cross the street to avoid walking past.”

“Was the rest of the area nice?” Paige asked. “Local business owners have always said we have the best location—in town and right on the water.”

“Worst neighborhood in the city. Nowhere near the water,
the university, or any other place people had regular reason to visit. The best nearby attraction was a Laundromat that turned into an undercover gambling house at night.”

“Sounds lovely.” Paige shot me a look.

“It was awful. My parents never would’ve let me work there if they didn’t know the owner—and if the tips weren’t amazing. Which they were. Every single night.” She reached into her shorts pocket and pulled out a worn cardboard square. “This was the menu.”

“That looks like a coaster,” Paige said.

“It is a coaster, complete with beer and hot sauce stains.” Natalie turned it over, held it up. “I carry it everywhere. I’m a little sentimental.”

“Monday, ribs,” I said, squinting to read the messy script. “Tuesday, wings. Wednesday, chicken fingers.”

“Bar food?” Paige asked. “And only one kind a day?”

“That’s all they needed. The owner switched the days around every few months, but the dishes themselves didn’t change once in the five years I was there.”

“That must’ve been really good bar food,” I said.

“It wasn’t bad … but you could get as good, if not better, at a dozen other nicer places in town.”

“So, then, why was it so successful?” Paige took the coaster when Natalie handed it to her, examined it like the stains contained clues. “What made people wait two hours to get in?”