Page 30 of Girl in the Water

Even so, he got up, closing his eyes for a second as his head threatened to blow. She had cooked for him. The least he could do was try, so he shuffled over to the table.

The sight of the food didn’t fill him with confidence. The two plates held nothing but razor-thin slices of fresh, raw fish wrapped around chunks of fruit.

She looked at him with hopeful expectation.

“It’s the most appallingly healthy meal I’ve ever seen,” he muttered as he sat.

And she smiled at him across the table with relief, obviously having no idea whatappallingmeant in English.

She picked up a piece with her fingers and shoved it into her mouth.

He did the same. What the hell.

His stomach didn’t roil. Actually, it settled. Food gave the acid something to do.

He ate in silence. Maybe she sensed that he needed that, because she didn’t say a word either as Ian cleared off his plate piece by slimy piece.

And he was glad he did, because the empty plate seemed to fill Daniela with joy and satisfaction. She smiled from ear to ear as she cleared off the table.

Next, she brought him some bitter-smelling tea from the stove. “You drink this, Senhor Ian.”

The brew had the color and consistency of swamp water and smelled like an overused outhouse at high noon in hundred-degree weather.

Maybe shehadkilled Finch, and now she wanted to kill Ian.

Ian backed up. “No way.”

Undeterred, she pointed at his temple. “Jungle tea for the head pain.”

The food had helped a little, but his brain was still pounding so hard, just talking with her hurt. Either he went back out for some hard liquor or drank this swamp water. Since he didn’t want to be impaired tonight, he drank the brew.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!

His stomach rolled.

He held still as if that could hold back an eruption.

And maybe it did, because as seconds passed, the nausea settled. And then, little by little, his headache began to fade.

“I think I’m keeping you forever,” he said on a sigh, without thought, focused on the bliss of dimming pain.

She stood frozen to the spot, eyes glistening, and she blinked hard. The amount of innocent hope on her face was truly heartbreaking. And the admiration completely undeserved.

Ian pushed back his chair and stood. “You’ll never go back to the Rosa bitch. I meant that.” He filled his lungs with air that smelled of fish and rain, then cleared his throat. “We’ll see about the rest. Now, let’s get to work.”

He sounded gruff, even to his own ears.

She sprang into action, happy as a stray at the offer of leftovers. “I’ll clean, Senhor Ian.”

“Forget that for now. We’ll clean up together later. Right now, you’re going to learn how to defend yourself.” He moved to the living room, pushing the furniture out of the way.

Every piece was made of bamboo, except the couch pillows. He could see where things had been broken when the house had been ransacked, saw how she’d fixed things with rope and glue. She was industrious, he had to give her that.

He stood in the middle of the room and turned to her. “Attack me.”

She paled. Stepped back. “Oh no, Senhor Ian.”

He sighed. “Just Ian.”