All the Secrets We Keep (Quarry Book 2) Read online

  He wasn’t expecting the push of water being displaced by something swimming close to him. Close and big. Really big.

  Ilya had been confronted with sharks, barracuda, and stingrays as big as his entire body. Ugly, aggressive electric eels. But all those creatures were in the ocean, where you’d expect to run into them, where you’d be on guard for them. Nothing like that should be down here. There were quarries that supported fish. Carp, pike, perch, and bass. In the plans he’d looked over from this development corporation, there’d been information in there about seeding the quarry with “fishable wildlife,” but he and Alicia had never done that.

  Another push of water swirled around him. Something flickered just out of view on the other side of the car. Impossibly, the car itself vibrated, like something was rubbing against it. Something big enough to shift it.

  Ilya had been diving for years. He’d taught hundreds of classes, certified hundreds of divers. He knew the dangers of panicking and how to avoid it, but here he was with his breath coming swift and shallow as he flailed in the water, trying to get away from the car. Another thrum came from the Golf. A looming dark form showed itself through the windows, unclear but shimmering.

  Nothing that big should be down here. Nothing that could swim or move, nothing that could start toward him. Ilya heard the rush and swoosh of blood in his ears. He knew to stay calm, but right then, all he could think about was getting away.

  Despite himself, a shout lurched out of his mouth around his mouthpiece. Bubbles. The feeling he could not breathe. He spun in the water, kicking.

  In seconds, firm hands gripped him, and he was pulled gently to the surface, where they broke the water, and he tore away his mouthpiece to gasp in gulps of air. Something brushed his legs, and he screamed hoarsely, jerking them upward while Deke shouted in response. Patty had not surfaced with them but broke a second or so later.

  He was going to drown, Ilya thought. He was going to get pulled under and eaten by it. The stories he’d been telling for years were true.

  “Chester . . . ,” he managed to say.

  “C’mon, man.” Deke took him under one arm and got him swimming toward the end of the dock. It was only a few feet, a few minutes, and by the time they got there, Ilya was already remembering how to breathe.

  Embarrassed, he shook off Deke’s help getting up the ladder. He tossed off his mask and sat on the edge of the dock, looking over the edge, convinced he was going to see the gaping maw of an overgrown, mutant goldfish devour Patty. He didn’t breathe easy until she was up the ladder, too, kneeling next to him and squeezing his shoulder.

  “You okay?”

  “I saw it.” Ilya looked at her confused expression and started to laugh. “All these years, all the stories—hell, I made most of ’em up. But I saw it.”

  Patty looked confused. “You saw what?”

  “The goldfish. Chester.”

  Patty snorted laughter. “You’re full of it. That was just something you spread around to get people to dive here.”

  “No. I saw it. It’s enormous. It’s almost as big as I am. It was behind the Golf.” Ilya turned his head and spat. “Shit. I think I almost blacked out.”

  Patty sat back. “That’s crazy.”

  “I saw it once,” Deke said seriously. “Oh, back about seven years ago. I was out with one of the night classes you guys used to run. I was over by the copter. Had my flashlight. I shone it down, you know, just to see if I could get a glimpse of the bottom, but you can’t there—it’s what, seventy, eighty feet?”

  “Something like that,” Ilya said.

  “What the hell are you both talking about?” Patty asked.

  “Back in high school, we all went to the carnival together,” Ilya said. “Played that game with the Ping-Pong balls and the goldfish, you know? Jenni Harrison won a fish. A big, fat orange one. She named it Chester. But she got tired of taking care of it, right, because goldfish are dirty. Their tanks are always gross. So she brought it out to the quarry, and she threw it in. And he’s been here ever since. Growing.”

  Patty pursed her lips. “Hmmm.”

  “There was a dude in France,” Deke said solemnly. “Pulled a thirty-pound goldfish out of a lake.”

  Patty rolled her eyes. “You’re both so full of it.”

  “I saw it on the Internet, it’s true,” Deke said again. “And I totally saw the one Ilya’s talking about once, right in my flashlight beam. Huge goldfish, swimming away like it didn’t give one good goddamn.”

  “It was a story we told people, but I’ve never . . . I never saw him. I mean, I didn’t really think . . .” Ilya let himself fall back onto the dock, staring up at the sky.

  “Now the goldfish on your logo makes a lot more sense,” Patty said. “I always figured it was just a fish because, well, water.”

  “No, it’s the carnival goldfish named Chester that Jenni threw in the quarry.” Ilya shuddered and ran both hands through his hair. “It was huge. It was real. I didn’t imagine it.”

  Jennilynn had gone and died, changing everything, and the fish had lived.

  “I believe you,” Deke said. “But next time, do me a favor and don’t lose your shit over it, man. You scared me. Even if it’s really big, it’s still only a goldfish. Right?”

  It was more than that, not that he’d ever be able to explain it to Deke. Or to anyone. Not even to himself.

  “I was stupid,” Ilya agreed. “Sorry.”

  “It can happen to anyone. That’s why you don’t dive alone.” Patty slapped her thighs with both hands and then shaded her eyes to look across the water and the parking lot to the construction. “That’s where they’re going to build the condos, huh?”

  Ilya had taken enough deep breaths by now that he was a little calmer, at least about the goldfish. The idea of the condos had his chest going tight again. “That’s the plan, apparently. They don’t have to ask my permission.”

  Patty gave him a sympathetic smile. “It might turn out okay, Ilya. I mean, maybe seeing Chester after all these years when you thought he was just a story . . . maybe that’s a sign, right? It’s all going to be okay?”

  “Sure. Maybe.” Ilya had been raised by two women superstitious enough to have put the belief of signs into him. The question was, What did it mean? “You guys going back in?”

  “Nah. I gotta get going. But hey, man, about the Belize trip.” Deke hesitated. “I know I said I was interested, but I can’t make it. It’s a lot of money, and I’m trying to save up for a new truck. And umm, well . . .”

  “We’re getting married,” Patty said matter-of-factly. “So I told him that maybe we can go next year, but this year we have a lot of bills. Sorry, Ilya.”

  There went two of the four who’d expressed an interest. That was it. He was screwed.

  “Mazel tov,” Ilya said anyway. Just because he could be a dick didn’t mean he always had to be.

  Far out in the water, something splashed. A glint of orange flashed. They all looked, but nothing was there.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It would take more than a few days for Theresa to fully settle in so she could feel like she lived here and wasn’t merely a houseguest, but it helped that Alicia had been spending a number of nights out with Niko, so Theresa often had the house to herself. Theresa had insisted on talking over everything with her new landlord/roommate—who’d be responsible for what chores, what Theresa was expected to contribute to the household, whether or not it was cool to drink the other’s milk without asking. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was find herself homeless again because she’d crossed some line she hadn’t known about.

  Tonight, Alicia had gone out with Niko to the movies and dinner. She’d told Theresa not to expect her home until around midnight. Theresa had spent the day pursuing leads and checking in with a few new contacts she hoped she could connect with an architect who was interested in turning an old power plant on the outskirts of town into upscale apartments. There was money in that deal—a
lot of it—if only she could get all the pieces in the right places. She’d also turned in some paperwork on a small deal that would bring her a few hundred bucks by next week. She’d made it home early, by four, parking in the empty spot in the garage and passing Alicia on her way out.

  For the first time in months, Theresa was going to take a night off. No scouring the Internet for properties that looked poised for a cheap sale, no paperwork, no cold-calling, no cajoling or wheedling or flattering her contacts into meetings. She was going to bake some of Babulya’s challah bread to use for French toast in the morning and maybe heat up a frozen pizza, take a hot shower, and get in her fuzzy pajamas, then indulge in a book from Alicia’s vast paperback library. Many of the titles lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves in the den were from the horror heyday of the eighties—Alicia’s father had been a big horror fan. Alicia had added a lot of lit fic and romances to the collection, along with some outstanding science fiction that Theresa was dying to get into. She’d sold off almost all her books at the used bookstore to gain some quick cash, and although she’d often utilized the public library, she hadn’t felt much like reading over the past few months.

  For the first time in nearly a year, Theresa felt like everything might eventually be all right.

  She stripped down in the bedroom that had once been shared by Alicia and her sister. The walls still bore the faint outlines of the posters she’d so envied back then. Boy bands, cartoon cats, a unicorn. The twin beds had been replaced with a comfortable queen-size mattress and headboard, though the scarred dresser looked old enough to be the same. If she stayed here long enough, she’d get her own things out of storage, but for now it was nice to simply have a bed at all. She slipped into a faded terry-cloth robe to walk down the hall to the bathroom.

  Unlike the Sterns, Alicia’s parents had kept their home in better repair. The bathroom was small and outdated, but everything worked, including the shower. Under the beat of the water, Theresa thought she heard a rapping, but when she stuck her head out of the spray, she heard nothing. Old house, she told herself. At the subtle rumble of far-off thunder, Theresa quickly finished shaving her legs—another practice she’d been skipping too often and was delighted to indulge in now.

  Wearing a robe, her hair in a towel, she went on bare feet down the stairs and into the kitchen, intending to check on the challah dough she’d left rising while she combed out her hair and put on pajamas.

  At the sight of a blue jeans–clad rear sticking out from the fridge, she jumped, startled. “Hey!”

  The guy raiding the fridge jumped, too, hitting his head on the bottom edge of the freezer door. Rubbing it, he glared at her over the fridge door, which he closed at the sight of her. His mouth opened. Then closed.

  “Ilya,” Theresa said. “What are you doing in here?”

  He held up a beer. “I came to . . . this . . . what are you doing here?”

  “I’m . . .” She sighed and pulled her robe closer around her throat. “It’s a long story. But I’m allowed to be in here.”

  “I’m allowed to be in here, too,” he said with a grin. “I’m just not supposed to be.”

  “Alicia isn’t here.” She eyed him, then the beer. It looked like he wasn’t planning on leaving right away. She could make him, probably, if she insisted, but the effort seemed like too much work for an evening that had been meant for relaxation. “Grab that pizza out of the freezer, please. While you’re standing there.”

  He did, waving it at her before setting it on the counter. “I was looking for my brother. Figured he was as likely to be over here as not. Guess I was wrong. I sure wasn’t expecting to find you.”

  “They went out.” She gestured to distract him from asking more questions. “Grab a baking sheet. They’re in that drawer under the oven.”

  He bent, found one. Pulled it out. Without being asked, he slid open the cardboard box and pulled out the pizza, which was encased in plastic that he tore open so he could put the frozen circle of dough and sauce on the baking sheet. He even turned on the oven and put the pizza inside while she watched.

  “Ham and pineapple,” he said. “My favorite.”

  “Don’t let your mother hear you say that.” Theresa couldn’t hold back a smile.

  Ilya snorted. “Yeah, because suddenly after her entire life, she’s decided to embrace a faith she never paid any attention to before to honor a woman who had abandoned it before my mother was even born.”

  “People cling to strange things when their lives change,” Theresa said.

  Ilya leaned against the counter and cracked the top of his beer and waggled his eyebrows at her. “Do you? Cling to strange things, I mean.”

  “Do you always walk into Alicia’s house like you own it?” Theresa asked with narrowed eyes, not rising to the bait. She checked the dough, now soft and fluffy, peeking over the rim of the mixing bowl in which she’d left it. She took it out to place on a second baking sheet she’d already set out.

  Ilya didn’t answer right away. He took a long, long drink of beer and looked at her. She was very aware of her hair in the towel, the robe clinging to her damp skin. Her freshly shaved legs.

  “Old habits are hard to break,” he said finally. “You didn’t answer my question about what you’re doing here. In a robe, no less.”

  And naked underneath.

  “I took a shower.” She stood her ground, refusing to let a blush creep up her cheeks. She rolled the dough between her hands, pulling it into three equal pieces.

  “You seem to be making a habit of using other people’s showers, Theresa.”

  She cleared her throat, thinking of a response but found none. Uncertain why she simply didn’t tell him the truth the way she’d told Alicia. It wasn’t anything she had to be ashamed of, she told herself. After all, Ilya Stern had certainly had his share of screwups in his life. Even if he judged her, so what?

  It was because of her father. His mother. The thing between them that Theresa knew in her gut had at least partially led to the trouble she was in now. It was a tie between Barry and Galina, and it shouldn’t make a difference to anything between Theresa and Ilya . . . yet somehow, whatever it was, she knew it would matter. Family might suck. They might let you down, steal your name, put you in debt. But family was family, and each of them, when it came right down to it, would feel their loyalty to their own.

  Why it mattered that she and Ilya get along with each other was a whole other story.

  He eyed what she was doing with the dough. “What’s that?”

  “Challah,” she answered. “It makes fantastic French toast, and I haven’t been able to bake any in forever.”

  “Babulya’s challah?”

  “Yes,” she said with a lift of her chin. “Her recipe.”

  He didn’t answer at first, then said, “She gave it to you.”

  “She didn’t, actually. She just taught me how to make it, and I remembered.” Her voice shook the tiniest bit at the memories of those long-ago days in the kitchen with Ilya’s grandmother. The days when Theresa had felt as though she, if only for the shortest time, belonged somewhere, with someone who cared enough about her to make sure she would be all right.

  “I haven’t had my grandmother’s challah since a long time before she died.” His voice was quiet, his expression neutral except for the glint of sadness in his eyes.

  Theresa remembered how broken up Ilya had been when Babulya died. “Well. It’ll be done in about an hour, and you can have some. Okay?”

  “Why haven’t you been able to bake it in forever?” he asked, circling back around in that way he had of focusing on the one thing she didn’t want to talk about.

  “I haven’t had a place to stay with a reliable oven,” she told him, hating that he kept asking questions she didn’t want to answer.

  “But . . . you’re baking it . . . here?” Ilya seemed genuinely confused, and how could she blame him? She was doing her best to keep him in the dark, after all.

  “Alicia
’s got a great oven.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re using it,” Ilya said.

  Theresa sighed with a frown, then simply said, “I’m staying here for a while.”

  “Why, so you can poke me about signing that deal?” Surprisingly, his voice was low, not confrontational. His look curious, but not aggressive. He took another drink and put the bottle on the counter to cross his arms. Waiting for her to answer.

  “That’s . . . that’s not even . . .” She shook her head as she rolled the three pieces of dough into long logs, then pinched them together at the top so she could braid them. “That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?”

  “Why, then?”

  She frowned. “Does everything in the world have to revolve around you, Ilya? Did it ever occur to you that not everything I do in my life is about you or that stupid deal? You’ve made it very clear you’re not going to take it, so that’s that. Okay? It’s over. Done. Now, excuse me. I’m going to put this bread in the oven and then put on my pajamas. You should be gone by the time I get back.”

  He wasn’t. In fact, he’d set the table with plates, glasses, and a bottle of wine from the rack on the counter. The pizza was set on top of the oven, the cheese bubbling.

  “The challah wasn’t done yet.”

  “It’ll be another twenty minutes or so. And that’s not my wine,” she told him. “Or yours.”

  “We’ll buy her another bottle. She won’t care. I know for a fact Alicia doesn’t like white wine,” Ilya said. “I’m not even sure what it’s doing there.”

  Theresa moved closer to the table. “That’s really not the point, is it? She and I agreed that we wouldn’t take what’s not ours without asking first.”