“I need to wrap my head around things first.”
“Okay.”
“I was warned not to return home. Banished from everyone I love. And when I finally find a way back . . . am finally useful . . . this happens.”
“Surely you don’t believe this is your fault? Those men hurt you.”
“All I know is they wore masks, said very little, and were very businesslike. Men hired to do a job. . . issue a warning . . . If the man in the doorway didn’t stop them, I might be bleeding to death right now.” She turns to the prone figure on the floor and pure horror creeps across her face as she realizes his fate. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
If I hold a mirror before my face, I’m positive I’ll find the same look. I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. While Luciana slowly dresses, I run around the room grabbing our passports. By not involving the police, we need to disappear fast.
“He was a nice guy. What a shame,” she comments, her words cold but her eyes bright, not tear-filled but close. “Only a cold-hearted bastard would warn someone this way.”
I stop digging under her bed for her purse and look at her. Really look at her, like I’m seeing her for the first time. How much do you genuinely know a person? Seems I’m not the only one with secrets.
“We’ve got to get out of here right away. It’s you and me, okay, Madelyn? No cops. Promise.”
“I have an idea,” I hurriedly tell her. “You know the boat we hired for whale watching? Let’s ask the old man if he could take us up the coast. If whoever did this plans on finishing the job, they could be watching the buses and roadway. Not the harbor. That is, if they don’t catch us here. Ready?”
“Yes. Guess there’s a bright side to growing up in cartel territory. When trouble heads your way, you learn fast that its fight or flight. I just never anticipated the enemy would be him.”
“You know who did this?”
She stares at me, eyes filled with pain.
“Stay here while I grab my duffel,” I tell her, brushing aside my questions. We need to get moving. I hurry into my bedroom, for once grateful that I always leave my bags packed. I snatch up my pink duffel bag and hurry toward the door but pause as my attention falls on the contents inside my bag, and on Mama’s afghan . . . I’m always careful to zip up my bag . . .
I stiffen, inhaling sharply. The faint scent of treated leather, like the new seats in an expensive car, lingers in the room. Distinct. Recent.
He’s been through my things . . . might still be here . . .
I back up and meet Luciana in the living room, motioning with my hand for her to follow me. She stands stiffly, her gaze shifting back to the dead bartender. For a second, I think she’s going to lose it. Hell, that makes two of us. But our survivors’ instinct kicks in and we somehow, by the grace of God, manage to hold it together.
Once outside, we run. Run until we’re both breathless. Run until red lines crisscross Luciana’s thin linen sundress. Run until we near the old boat captain’s house.
“We can place an anonymous call. Maybe the fisherman can do it for us after he makes our travel arrangements?” I step forward but she grips my arm and stops me.
“It’s better if I handle this.”
I shake my head and swallow hard. “Let me. Your dress is soaked with blood.”
One look at either of us and, if the fisherman has any common sense, he’ll slam the door in our faces.
Luciana eyes flicker over me then snags on my shirt. “Hold on. Do all your clothes have your initials on the tags?”
“Yes. Nothing gets lost at the laundromat that way. Are you going into shock? Right now, that’s not—”
“I was wearing your clothing.”
“What?”
“Dios, this warning wasn’t meant for me, was it? While those pendejos got their kicks running their knives across my body, one of them said a name. I didn’t think it important until a second ago . . . brace yourself . . .”
I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to stop it. Stop the sensation that I’m spinning, around and around, my equilibrium shot to hell. My balance. My world. My hopes and dreams. “Whose?” I whisper.
“Yours, Madelyn. I think they thought I was you.”
4
Madelyn
The fisherman takes us as far as La Paz, a resort town on the Gulf of California one hundred miles north of Cabo. A salty mist dampens our skin, and I breathe in deeply, hoping the spray of ocean water will speed up the healing of Luciana’s wounds. She never complains. Not once, even when I prompt her multiple times about tending to them. “When we get home,” she reassures me.
Her home, in the town of Loreto, a five hour bus ride north.
We arrive in the dark of night. And from the time her older brother opens his door until now, I understand why Luciana dislikes going home. It’s almost a case of us jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Except no one’s been murdered.
Yet.
I shiver at the thought. Her brother, Diego, is violence personified.
Tall, built like a fighter and with wavy black hair and fierce caramel-colored eyes, he prowls the room like a big, angry puma, all the while cursing a blue streak. I catch the Spanish word for asshole after he snarls, “Pinche puto pendejo baboso.” Words I’ve learned mixed with a plethora of others I don’t care to learn. It’s pretty darn clear that Diego’s a raw, bigger-than-life, all-abrasive-male version of Luciana.
If I wasn’t so damned exhausted—the adrenaline rush that’d help spirit us across the Baja peninsula is now cast outside somewhere on this unpaved, dusty street—if my sense of self-preservation hadn’t kicked into high gear, I would think he was hot. In an aggressive, furious, incredulous kind of way.
Luciana and I sit stiffly on the couch in his small living room, pinned to the cushions beneath his glare. The entire time, Luciana remains calm. Quiet, as if she’s waiting for his unbridled rage to fade. I open then close my mouth a few times, catching the meaning of several other curses, but defer to Luciana’s lead. This is her brother. Her call.
“Conejito, we had a deal. I gave into your pleading. You could leave aunt Gretchen in Copenhagen and transfer to school in California … so long as you stayed put in California. It’s a big state. How hard could it fucking be?”
His glare sweeps from her to me.
He hates me. Hate at first sight. Before I can dwell on the whys, he continues speaking in perfect English, with no trace of an accent, his words sharp and clear. “In turn, you were supposed to get close to her and call me with weekly updates.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Diego,” Luciana snaps. “Dios, I’m so sorry you found out this way, Madelyn. I promise I’ll explain.”
He continues addressing his sister, completely ignoring our exchange. “And what do you do? Leave me a motherfucking voice mail informing me you were going to Cabo when I specifically warned you to stay the hell out of Mexico. And now you fucking show up here, of all places?” He motions to me. “With her, of all people?”
Me. The person she’s been spying on and calling her brother about.