4. Siena
Siena
“ S peak.”
I’m rudely jolted out of my fear and confusion. Speak ?! Who talks to people like that? I hate him instantly.
“Who the fuck are you ?” I ask.
He looks at me over the top of his glasses. “I’m the one who’s in charge here. What. Do. You. Want.”
I roll my eyes and turn my back on him, making my way to the dock. I’m fuming, but I have zero interest in wasting precious time on some arrogant prick. Emily needs me, and these shoes were a bad fucking idea.
As I approach the lake, the scene unfolds like a grim tableau. The sun’s glare off the shiny remnants of the small plane floating along the water’s surface is making my headache worse.
I turn my attention instead to the long wooden pier that shoots out into the center of the wreckage. Worn-out boards creak under the weight of officers and divers, who are laying out recovered items to dry on the dilapidated dock .
The air is thick with the acrid scent of fuel, and my stomach roils as I make my way toward the officers slowly. I still have no idea what to say, how to ask what I have to ask.
The man in the suit steps up behind me, watching me watch the officers. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I think my sister was on that plane.” The sound of my own voice surprises me. I didn’t mean to say anything, much less something so honest and vulnerable, and I instantly hate myself for it. I am surprised that I sound so steady when I feel sick inside.
“Your sister?” He comes around to stand beside me, staring at me like he expected something different.
“Yes, Emily Briarone.” I watch him expectantly, hoping he’ll give me some sign that he recognizes the name, that he’s found something that would be helpful to me, but as soon as I do, he turns back to the lake.
I follow his gaze, watching as law enforcement works to pull debris out of the water and into the boat. “Bellamorte Briarone. She’s married. Her husband may be on the plane, too.”
“So that makes you…”
“Siena,” I whisper, not even sure why I’m answering him.
“You know for sure she was on the plane?” he asks gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest like maybe he thinks I’m lying to him.
“I think so.”
Something about this man feels both safe and dangerous. He clearly isn’t here to help me, and he’s speaking to me like I’m both an intruder and his employee, but there’s an air of protection about him.
If he is in charge like he says he is, I need him to tell me what he knows about what happened and not the other way around.
“Do you happen to know if there was anyone else on the plane with her?” He pulls his sunglasses off his face, fixing me with a hard glare.
I’m confused by the aggression he’s leveling at me. Is he under the impression I had something to do with this? If not, why the fuck is he asking me questions? I just got here.
“What did you say your name was?” I stare back at him. He is gorgeous, with a bristly growth of a beard like a 5 o’clock shadow, though it can’t be past 10 in the morning, tan skin, and dark navy blue eyes.
His suit hugs his body, barely containing his broad chest and thick arms. It’s a buttery soft charcoal gray that pops against the white linen shirt beneath the lapel with a silk tie the color of darkly ripe plums. He looks a little older than I am, probably late-thirties, and there is something about him that seems too… expensive, too dark for this area.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk as he faces me again. “Matti. Matti Dragovari. And you are?”
I frown, unable to decipher the expression on his face. What does he think my intention is? Does he think I’m trying to fuck him? I mean, sure, he’s hot as fuck, so it likely happens to him with strange women a lot. But the arrogance. Especially in this situation. Gross.
“Okay, Matti , has anyone found anything? Anyone? Do they have any idea how this happened?” I ask, ignoring his question.
The smirk disappears, and he turns back toward the lake like I no longer interest him. “No. Go home. You’ll be contacted when we have more information. ”
Desperation and anger flare in me as I find myself face to face with his back. Fuck this guy. If he won’t give me answers, someone else will.
“Thanks so much for your help,” I sneer. “Invaluable. Really.”
A man at the end of the dock wearing a uniform under a clear rain poncho stands up, picks up a bin full of items, and walks toward me and Matti.
As he passes by, I glance in the bin and see a collection of clear bags tossed haphazardly, each marked and tagged and full of bits and pieces from the crash.
The sight of brightly colored fabric makes my heart jump into my throat.
“Wait!” I reach into the bin and pull out the bag containing the fabric. It’s my sister’s scarf. I’d recognize it anywhere.
The man carrying the bin looks confused and drops it, reaching for the bag in my hands.
“Ma’am,” he says with a deep Southern accent. “That’s evidence, ma’am. You can’t mess with that.”
“The hell I can’t! This belongs to my sister.”
At first, I am over the top excited because I’ve finally found something related to Emily, but immediately, my stomach lurches, realizing what this means.
That scarf means Emily was definitely on that plane, and as he snatches the bag out of my hand, it’s like she’s being pulled away from me yet again.
The man’s name tag says Clifton.
“Detective Clifton, have you found any survivors? Any sign of anyone?”
“That’s ‘officer,’ ma’am. I’m not a detective. And… no.” Giving me a disdainful look, he drops the bagged scarf back in the bin and moves past me.
He heads toward the parking lot where one of the truck beds is being filled with more bins, similarly full of bagged and tagged evidence from the crash.
Matti moves closer to me, his expression hardening, as we both watch the officer walk away.
My breath catches in my throat, the words strangling me as I fight to hold it together. “I was just talking to her. I can’t believe…”
Matti looks down at me, his voice steely. “You talked to your sister? When? After or… before?”
I’m jolted back to reality. This Matti guy is too much.
Not only is he on the attack, but I still don’t get who he is or why he’s talking to me.
I want to scream at him, take out my fear and frustration over Emily on him, and at the same time I refuse to let him see that he’s gotten to me—that anything can get to me.
Matti narrows his eyes at me menacingly, his voice low. “I asked you a question. Don’t make me ask you again.”
“I don’t know who the fuck you are, but if you really have anything to do with investigating this case, then you need to direct your questions to someone who knows something. Not the person who just got here ten minutes ago,” I snarl at him, my attention on Clifton and the truck.
Matti turns to follow my gaze.
My throat feels like it’s closing up as Clifton drops the bin into the truck bed with a thud that echoes across the water.
He starts to head back toward us, but when he makes eye contact with me then sees Matti glaring back at him, he drops his gaze and sharply turns to walk up the water’s edge away from us.
Panic claws at my chest, sharp and insistent. Emily’s stuff is still in the truck bed, and I can’t think about anything else. I dart my eyes around, scanning for law enforcement, calculating my chances. Could I slip up there and grab her scarf without anyone noticing?
Before I can decide, a weight on my arm halts me. I glance down and freeze. It’s Matti’s hand, firm and commanding, his grip just shy of bruising. His knuckles bear a jagged scar, and the black ink on his hand, a tip of a feather, is peeking out from under his sleeve like a secret.
I look up at him, surprised, and though his face has not softened, he holds my gaze intently. Although it seems like he’s reading my mind and stopping me from taking Emily’s stuff from the truck, I’m oddly comforted.
The moment is shattered by the roar of an engine. We both turn toward the sound and watch as a motorboat pulls up full of items taken from the water as Matti withdraws his hand.
Officer Clifton jumps out and onto the dock, and the other officers in the boat pass him each item carefully: hunks of metal, chunks of machinery, and what looks like more personal items: clothes, a comb, a water bottle, a fabric makeup case.
That’s when I see it.
All my senses shut down except for sight as I lock in on the sage green vinyl roll-up makeup case. It’s handed to Officer Clifton, the sun reflecting off the zipper pulls, and my entire body tenses, urgency overcoming common sense.
I rush down the dock toward the officers, ready for a fight.