Page 122 of Pull Me Under

Chapter Twenty-Four

BRYNN

The fuel pump is fighting me.

Which is fine. I’m in the mood for a fight.

I’ve been at it since dawn, down in the shed with the trawler’s guts spread across the workbench like some mechanical autopsy. My hands are black with grease, my back aches from hunching over the engine block, and I haven’t consumed anything except three cups of coffee and half a stale biscuit I found in my jacket pocket.

It’s fine. All of it. Completely fine.

The spanner slips. I bark my knuckles against the engine casing and swear loudly enough to send a gull flapping off the roof.

‘That sounded painful.’

I don’t turn around. ‘It wasn’t.’

‘Your hand is bleeding.’

‘It’s not—’ I look down. It is. ‘Shit.’

Cassie appears at my elbow, holding out a tissue. She’s wrapped in one of those massive cardigans that pregnant women seem to favour, her dark curls escaping from a messy bun, and she’s got that look on her face. The one that says she’s not leaving until she’s extracted information.

‘Thanks.’ I take the tissue, press it against my knuckles. ‘What are you doing down here?’

‘Walking. Doctor says I need to keep moving or the baby will come out the size of a small horse.’ She pats her belly. ‘Also, Cal forgot his lunch. Again. I swear, that man would forget his own head if it wasn’t attached.’

‘He’s lucky to have you.’

‘He really is. I remind him daily.’ She leans against the doorframe, surveying the chaos of the shed. ‘So. Want to tell me why you look like you’re planning to murder that engine?’

‘I’m not planning to murder it. I’m fixing it.’

‘Is that what we’re calling it?’ She nods at the workbench, where various components are scattered in what I would generously describe as organised chaos. ‘Because from here it looks more like a crime scene.’

‘It’s a process.’

‘Mmm.’ She’s quiet for a moment. Watching me with those sharp eyes that see too much. ‘Brynn.’

‘What?’

‘You look even more murderous than usual. And I say that with love.’

I focus on wrapping the tissue around my knuckles. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Of course you are. That’s why you’re down here at’—she checks her watch—‘half past ten on a Saturday morning, beating up boat parts.’

‘I’m working. Some of us have businesses to rebuild.’

‘Some of us have friends who notice when things are wrong.’

The word ‘friends’ catches me off guard. Are we friends? I’ve known Cassie for a few weeks. She’s been kind to me. But friendship implies sharing. Implies letting someone in.

I’m not sure I know how to do that anymore.

‘I’m fine,’ I say again. ‘Really. Just focused.’

Cassie doesn’t push. She just stands there, comfortable in the silence, letting it stretch until I either fill it or don’t.