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“Is it a bomb?” I asked Tyler.
“I don’t know. But stand back.” Tyler spread his arms wide as if protecting me from a potential blast and corralled me toward the stairs.
Dad climbed down the stairs and stood beside me with an open bottle of whiskey in his hand. The sickly-sweet smell of booze seemed to seep from his skin. “What’s that?”
“We found the case in the plane, but it started beeping just before we surfaced.”
Tyler’s body coiled with tension as he squatted near the case, studying it with his piercing blue gaze.
Curious, I stepped toward him.
“Indiana, stay back.” His voice was a low growl.
His words triggered a jagged memory from the minutes before my mother’s murder. Dad had uttered those exact same words to me. The scar on my forehead prickled as if recalling the brutal attack all over again.
Dad stepped past me with reckless defiance.
Tyler glared at him. “Don’t move.”
“If it was gonna blow, it would have already.” Dad scoffed.
“Smithy, just stay there.”
Clutching Dad’s arm, I dragged him back, and he stumbled, nearly tripping over our discarded fins. His bottle hit the deck and shattered into a million pieces. The harsh stench of potent alcohol filled the air.
“Fucking hell.” Dad stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the spilled liquid as if he’d lost a limb.
“Dad.” I gripped his arm again. He swiped my hand away, scowling at me. I raised my palms in a calming gesture. “Just give Tyler a minute.”
I couldn’t believe I was choosing to defend Tyler over Dad.
Tyler shifted the case side to side as if his gaze could somehow penetrate the battered metal. His jaw was clamped, and he was as tense as our anchor chain. As the salty tang of seawater filled my nostrils, I couldn’t shake the dread crawling up my spine.
Dad shuffled forward again. “What the hell are you waiting for? Get it open already.”
Tyler didn’t answer. His focus was fixed on the beeping case.
Dad grabbed an ax next to the emergency fire kit on the wall. “Get out of the way. Let me do it.”
His movements were agile for a man weathered by decades of storms as the ax glinted in his grip.
Tyler stood like a linebacker, ready to tackle Dad. “Smithy, no!”
Dad swung the ax. Tyler grabbed the wooden shaft just as the blade arced toward the case, missing it by inches.
“Get back, ya bastard. Whatever is in there is ours!” Dad’s slurred voice had an iron edge.
“The pilot down there could have been murdered because of this case. It’s police evidence.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck.” Dad swung the ax again.
Tyler lunged for the ax again.
“Get back, or I’ll fucking make you.” Glaring at Tyler, Dad aimed the ax at him.
My mind raced as images of the dead pilot flashed before me. Tyler was right. This had to be connected to that pilot’s murder. Tyler’s mouth tightened, and the circular scar behind his ear whitened with tension.
Dad swung the ax again, carving off one of the locks. It flew through the air and landed in my scuba mask.
