Read Online The Buried (The Apostles) by Shelley Coriell - Free Book Online Page A

Breathe out, two, three. Damn, she was never this agitated. “Yes.”

Chapter Seven
    Y ou really live on a stinkin’ boat?”
    Hatch ducked into the cabin and tossed the steaming, crumpled newspaper onto the galley table. “Yep,” Hatch said to Alex, who filed in behind him.
    On their way from the cemetery, Hatch had stopped at one of the oyster bars that squatted along the bay and picked up lunch: a dozen oysters, bakers with blue crab and artichokes, and a pair of fried amberjack filets. He’d told the waitress to throw in some fried greens. Kids needed vegetables, didn’t they? Hatch swiped a hand down his face. He didn’t know what the hell kids needed. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, other than keeping this kid, his kid, out of trouble. He owed that to Alex. Among other things. He’d help out with finances, Alex’s education, and issues with the authorities. Maybe he’d drop by a few times a year and check up on the family. He could even take Alex and his kid brothers out for a sail, maybe drop a few lines and snag a few fish, like a favorite uncle.
    As for the day-to-day stuff, it wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t. Hatch had a job that kept him on the road ninety percent of the time. More than that, in his job he worked with some severely broken people, and many of them had grown up with mothers and fathers lacking serious parenting skills. Alex was screwed up enough without adding a father who knew nothing about raising a kid.
    Hatch opened the fridge. Damn, he could go for a longneck. He grabbed two bottled waters and tossed them on the galley table.
    Behind him, Alex jumped and stumbled back from the shelf near the top berth. “It’s alive!”
    Hatch pointed to the shelf and then to Alex. “Alex, Herman. Herman, Alex,” he said by way of introduction.
    The kid poked at a crab scooting across a knobby sea sponge. “Herman is such a lame name for a hermit crab. Really original.”
    “His full name is Herman Melville, The Fourth.”
    Alex squatted so he was eye level with the crab. “Like the whale dick writer dude?”
    Hatch swallowed a chuckle. “That’s one way to look at Herman Melville.” Hatch pointed to the dozens of books behind the glass case, which included Moby Dick . “You know about Captain Ahab’s epic sea voyage?”
    Alex shrugged.
    “Feel free to take the book with you.”
    “Feel free to shut the fuck up.”
    Hatch’s fist tightened. If he’d said that to his old man, he would have been knocked across the cabin. He shook his fingers. Nope, not going to happen in his world.
    He sat at the table and tore open the newspaper. Buttery, garlicky steam poured out. Alex slumped onto the bench across from him and dug into the pile of seafood. Hatch had gained ten pounds during his last stint in Apalachicola. Oysters and shrimp. Biscuits slathered in honey. Fish so fresh it jumped in the frying pan. A decade ago when No Regrets had been anchored in the bay, he’d drop a line, snagging snappers and flounder the minute his hook hit the water. Within fifteen minutes he’d have them in a pan on his galley stove sizzling with butter. Grace would be at the table with two glasses of wine. And a smile.
    At one point that was all he’d needed to live. A few fish, wine, and Grace.
    He wondered what “business” she had at the sheriff’s station. To the untrained eye, she looked calm and in control, classic Grace, but Hatch was a student of faces, of minute movements, of words not spoken. Earlier today Grace Courtemanche had been anything but calm. She’d smoothed the pearls at her neck one too many times, and if he hadn’t been so slammed by the sight of her, he would have taken great delight in watching Grace be anything but graceful. But this little side trip to Cypress Bend wasn’t about Grace. He had enough on his plate with his son.
    He tapped a fisted hand against his chin, wondering what families talked about at the kitchen table. “You like to fish?” Hatch