Chapter 8: Two Inches of Water

Mara's POV

On Thursday night the storm drains on Fleet Street gave up, and the water came in under my father's door.

I was inside at the time, eating pie at his workbench.

The pie had arrived at our apartment that afternoon in a white box with no card.

It was peach, still warm, with a lattice top.

June had eaten a quarter standing at the counter and said, "Whoever sent this wants something."

I had carried the rest to the store, because it seemed wrong to eat it alone.

Now there were two inches of brown water on the floor, and the pie box was floating.

I rescued the pie. Then I found a bucket.

The back door banged open, and Cain Rourke walked in out of the rain.

He was alone. There was no Gus, no car at the curb, nobody behind him.

He was in a dark coat, soaked to the knees, and he stopped just inside the door and looked around the dark store.

"Ms. Bell."

"Mr. Rourke. This is the least secure door in Baltimore."

"It was open."

"It's always open. The lock is a rumor."

"Gus said you came here when it rained."

"Gus talks too much for a man who's paid to drive."

He looked at the bucket in my hand.

"Give me one."

"Excuse me?"

"A bucket. You have more than one. I can see three."

I handed him the red one.

He held it in front of him with both hands, by the rim.

"It goes under the drip," I said. "Over there. Then you empty it out the back."

He put the bucket under the drip.

He waited for it to fill. It was a thin drip.

"It'll take an hour at this rate," I said. "Use the other kind. Scoop from the floor."

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