Chapter 10 #2
“No, I don’t need help.” Grumbling, she jumped down, carefully avoiding any pressure on her sore ankle. The landing sent a sharp jolt of pain up her leg anyway, but she kept her face neutral. Showing pain had never gotten her anywhere in her line of work except sidelined.
She followed him outside to a tiny table on his front verandah, and he set down the plates. The boards creaked under their weight, warped by years of tropical downpours and relentless sun.
The bandage made her limp more prominent, and she hated that he noticed.
Deepening a frown, he said, “You okay?”
“Yes. Will you stop asking me that?”
“Nope.” He indicated to a chair. “Sit. I’ll get your coffee.”
He fetched their coffees and they sat opposite each other, overlooking dense bush with glimpses of the brown creek in the distance. The food smelled amazing, and her stomach growled, reminding her of how hungry she was. Sex and near-death experiences apparently worked up an appetite.
They ate in silence for a few beats, but his resistance to answering her question quickly made the food bitter in her mouth. She put her cutlery down and folded her arms. “What are you hiding?”
“What? Nothing.”
She wanted to punch his innocent expression right off his face. “So answer me, Stone. I’m getting sick of this bullshit.”
“Okay. I was trying to enjoy our meal.”
“Yeah, well, you ruined it for me, ’cause all I keep thinking is that you’re doing a damn good job of not telling me anything.”
“Right back at you, Frankie.”
“Don’t spin this back to me.”
“Why not? You didn’t even want to tell me your name, Frances.”
“Fuck you.” The words snapped out before she could stop them.
He shrugged. “It’s true.”
She clenched her fists and glared at him, determined to bite her tongue until he gave her answers. The only sound was his fork against the plate and the distinct squawk of a great blue heron down by the creek.
He set his knife down and reached for his coffee. “Okay. How about this: we go question for question. Like we’re speed dating.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Speed dating?”
“Yeah, but instead of finding out if we want to have sex, which—” he gestured between them with his fork, “—we’ve established we do, we find out if we can trust each other?”
She stared at him, considering. A question-for-question arrangement meant she would have to give up information, too, but it was better than his infuriating stonewall.
“Fine. But remember, we both want answers, and we both have information about Blackwater Deep. So no more bullshit, okay?”
“Is that your first question?” A hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth.
She thumped the table, making the cutlery jump and coffee slosh against the sides of the mugs. “Stone!”
“Okay. Jeez.” He gulped his coffee, the smile vanishing. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“Right. Me first. What were you doing on the rig yesterday?” She leaned forward, not willing to let him dodge this time. She pressed her palms against the weathered table, steadying herself for whatever lie he might try to feed her.
Stone set down his coffee mug, his eyes never leaving hers. “I saw you kayak to the rig and climb the ladder. So I followed you. I wanted to know what you were doing on that decommissioned rig.”
“But why were you even—”
“It’s my turn for a question.” He cut her off.
She clenched her jaw, frustration bubbling up. “Fine. Go ahead.”
“Why did you go back for the notebook?” He didn’t hesitate, as if he’d been waiting to ask all along.
She took a sip of coffee, buying time. The bitter liquid burned down her throat, and she swallowed hard.
“After Dad and I were laid off, my father began recording everything that didn’t add up at the rig in that book.
They shut down Blackwater Deep when it was working fine and should never have been decommissioned.
The reasons they gave us were bullshit. Over a hundred of us lost our jobs. Good jobs. We want to know why.”
He nodded slowly, frowning, and his eyes darkened. “Your turn.”
“Why were you watching the rig?”
As he scraped his hand over his beard stubble, the great blue heron called again from the creek, like it was trying to break the tension between them. She decided that if he dodged her question, she was going to stride down to Weasel’s boat and fuck off out of there. She was done with his games.
An emotion crossed his face, maybe a deep sadness, or guilt. He heaved a breath and nodded at her as if coming to a decision.
“I hope I don’t regret this.” He cut another piece of steak, chewed slowly, deliberately.
Frowning, she leaned closer. “You won’t.”
The silence stretched between them as he gathered his thoughts.
She could practically see the calculation behind his eyes .
. . how much to reveal, how much to keep hidden.
She could do exactly the same, hiding the truth behind deflection.
Finally, he set down his fork and his gaze drifted past her shoulder to the swaying trees, then back to her face.
“There’s been a pattern,” he finally said, his voice gravelly as if what he was about to say physically hurt. “I’ve been tracking strange electrical signatures, trying to work out where they come from.”
He ran a thumb along the rim of his coffee mug, his jaw working. “Look, there are some things I can’t tell you—”
Frankie huffed and shoved back on her chair to stand.
“Frankie,” he blurted, reaching across the table but stopping short of touching her. “I’m trying here, okay? There are operational details I’m not at liberty to share.”
“What? Are you a spy or something?”
“Or something. Yeah.” His mouth quirked in a humorless smile.
She blinked at him, wanting to call bullshit, but the raw honesty in his expression stopped her. The way his shoulders carried tension like armor. The way his eyes kept scanning the tree line, even in the middle of their conversation.
She lowered herself back into her chair. “Okay. So what can you tell me?”
A flicker of dark grief crossed his face, so raw it made her breath catch. He blinked it away quickly, but not before she saw it.
“I lost someone,” he said, the words tight in his throat. “My best friend, Dane. He was tracking these electrical anomalies, and he shared the intel with me right before . . . before he was killed.”
“Oh jeez. Stone, I’m sorry.” Her heart stuttered. “And you think his death is related to these electronic signatures?”
Stone’s fingers tightened around his mug until his knuckles whitened. “Hundred percent.”
Frowning, she tried to piece the details together but couldn’t connect the dots. “And how does his death relate to Blackwater Deep?”
“That’s another question.” He clenched his jaw. “So you owe me one. Blackwater Deep lit up with the same signature patterns Dane had documented. That’s why I’ve been watching the rig.”
“Watching? You mean that wasn’t your first time? So how long have you—?”
“My turn,” he said, his eyes hardening slightly.
“Right. Sorry.” She opened her hands in surrender. “Go ahead.”
He leaned back, his shoulders tense despite the casual posture. “I was watching the rig when you showed up. Thought maybe you were connected to whatever’s happening. But I didn’t expect you to be . . .”
He gestured vaguely in her direction.
“Be what?” she challenged.
“Someone who lost someone, too,” he said simply. “How did your dad die?”
“He was murdered.” She said it flatly, a statement of fact rather than a bid for sympathy.
His jaw dropped. “Fuck, Frankie. I’m sorry.”
She shrugged, though the pain still burned like hell. “The official version is that he had a heart attack, but I know he didn’t. Dad was as fit as a wild boar.”
She explained about them fishing the day before, in peak health, happy and strong. And about her coming home to sleep after her cleaning shift, then waking to find him dead in his bed.
“Shit. I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Did they do an autopsy?”
His eyes narrowed as if he already suspected the answer.
She shook her head, fighting the lump in her throat. “It all happened so quickly. One minute he was dead, next cremated and gone. Sheriff Dupuis said it was ‘natural causes’ and the coroner signed off without even examining him properly.”
“Fuckers.” The anger in his tone surprised her. Not just sympathetic, but personal, as if her loss was somehow his too.
He leaned across the table and rested his hand on the back of hers.
The warmth of his palm was steady and grounding.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
His touch was enough to confirm that he knew the kind of grief she was grappling with, the kind that came with questions that might never be answered, and produced a burning need for justice that kept her awake at night.
He tapped the back of her hand. “I understand you believe he was too healthy for a heart attack, but there’s something else, isn’t there? In his notebook, maybe?”
She gave him a pointed look.
“That’s two questions. My turn.” She mimicked his tone. “Who do you work for?”
He hesitated, and his expression was somewhere between hardened determination and wavering regret. Finally, he shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”
“Bullshit,” she snapped, pulling her hand away. “That’s the whole point of this honesty.”
“No,” he said firmly. “The point was answers. And the honest answer is that I can’t tell you. Not won’t. Can’t. There are people whose lives depend on that information staying secure.”
She studied him, searching for deception. “Fine. Then tell me this. Are you one of the good guys?”
A bitter smile twisted his mouth. “Yes. Absolutely.”
There was no hesitation, just raw conviction.
“What? No blurred lines?” She couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice.
He shook his head.
“Not about this.” A dangerous flash crossed his eyes. “Not when it comes to murder.”
The heron called again, its lonely cry echoing across the water. Stone’s eyes darkened as he looked toward the sound, as if hearing a different note in its call.
“Frankie, would you mind sharing your father’s notebook with me?”
The heron took flight from the creek, its wings beating against the afternoon air as it rose above them, solitary, watchful, and free. She turned her attention back to Stone, squinting at him, measuring his request against her instincts.
Silence stretched between them.
“Frankie, I don’t think your father was murdered because he’d stumbled onto industrial sabotage about Blackwater Deep. I think he found something much bigger.” Stone’s intensity was magnetic, pulling her in despite her reservations.
“What do you mean?”
“I think the rig is being used for some high-level government operation. The same kind of bullshit that got Dane killed.” His voice hardened. “And your dad. We need to make those fuckers pay.”
She nodded, feeling a cold, resolute weight settle in her chest. “Now you’re talking my language.”
“There’s one more thing about your father’s death that you may not know,” Stone said quietly. The change in his tone made her stomach drop.
“What?” She leveled her gaze at him, bracing herself.
“Did you know Sheriff Dupuis was found floating in the bayou a few weeks ago?”
“No.” The word came out as a breath.
“He apparently died of a heart attack while he was fishing.” Stone scraped his fingers through his dark hair.
“Holy shit.” The pieces clicked together with sickening clarity. The same sheriff who’d rushed her father’s death certificate. The same convenient diagnosis.
“Yeah. Seems he sided with the wrong people.” Stone’s voice had an edge like sharpened steel. “Or outlived his usefulness.”
“We need to stop these people, Stone.” She clenched her fists, wincing at the blisters on the tips of her fingers.
“Agreed. That’s why I need to bring in my team and—”
“What?” She jumped to her feet so fast her chair toppled backward, crashing against the porch boards. “Fuck no. Absolutely not.”
“But, Frankie, we—”
“No!” She aimed her finger at him, trembling with fury. “If you involve anyone else, I’m out of here and you’ll never see me or my dad’s notebook again.”
Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “I don’t trust anyone else. You’re lucky I’m even talking to you.”
Stone rose slowly, his hands open in a placating gesture. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight. “These men aren’t just anyone, Frankie. They’re professionals. Ex-military. My people. I trust them with my life.”
“Well, I don’t trust them with mine.” She backed away a step, her injured ankle protesting with a sharp stab of pain she refused to acknowledge. “And I sure as hell don’t trust them with my father’s investigation.”
“You trust me.” It wasn’t a question. His eyes held hers, searching.
“Barely,” she shot back, crossing her arms as if building a physical barrier between them. “And only because you’ve had multiple chances to kill me and haven’t taken them.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, a flicker of hurt crossing his face before hardening into resolve. “That’s a pretty low bar.”
She shook with rage. The kind of white-hot anger that had been building since she found her father’s cold body in his bed.
“They took all our jobs, Stone. Our careers and livelihoods. They told lies and shut down a successful drilling rig. They murdered my father.” Her voice cracked, but she pushed through.
“Then they tried to erase me. I don’t know who ‘they’ are, but they’re here in the bayou, so there’s no way to tell who to trust.”
Her words seemed to reach him. Perhaps it was her brutal honesty, or maybe he recognized the same desperate determination that drove him.
He exhaled slowly, then nodded once. “Okay. Just us.”
“Promise me,” she demanded.
“I promise.” Offering his hand, he held her gaze, unwavering. The afternoon light caught his stunning blue eyes, hardening them to gemstones. “No team. Just us.”
She gripped her palm to his, and as they shook hands, she prayed that Stone wasn’t lying to her.
Because that would be a betrayal she wouldn’t be able to come back from.