by Karina Halle
“Oh really? Dangerous town nowadays.”
“It was back then, too.” She briefly notices me staring. “Dad was also in Mexico.”
Interesting.
“And what did you do in Mexico?” Vicente asks, his voice lower, eyes searching hers. I have a feeling that he might be trying to get to the bottom of that article. “What took you there?”
“An old friend,” she says.
“Who?” I ask.
“No one you know.” She doesn’t look at me when she says it. “It was a very long time ago. Before you were born.”
“How old was Ben?”
“Three.”
“Did he go with you?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she takes a gulp of wine and breaks the staring contest with Vicente, going over to sit on the couch, her eyes on the TV. Like we were never here at all.
Well, this is awkward.
Vicente looks over at me and gives me a look to say that he tried. And did he ever. Then he looks back at my mom. “I should be off. Thank you so much for the wine.” He finishes the rest of the glass. “Next time I’ll have to ask you all about your tattoos. Especially the one on your leg. The cherry blossom and that moon. Very unique. And the one on your arm. The music notes.”
She glances down at her bicep, the bottom of the music notes just poking out from under her sleeve.
“It almost looks like an old song my father used to sing,” he says softly, as if reliving a memory.
My mother looks at him sharply. That fear again. She really does need new anxiety medication because this is getting a bit ridiculous.
“Goodbye, Mrs. McQueen,” he says, heading out of the living room and back into the hall. I quickly put my glass down on the mantel, shooting my mother the dirtiest of looks, and run after him.
He’s shrugging on his jacket and we don’t speak until we’re both out the door and on the steps.
“I am so sorry,” I cry out, hanging on to his arm. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. Usually she’s nice.”
“I’m sure she is,” he says. “Some people just have off days and a lot of people don’t like it when others drop by unannounced. I’m pretty sure you don’t. That’s part and parcel of your hyper-sensitivity. Leads to you being overwhelmed.”
“Phhfft. My mom isn’t hyper-sensitive. She’s tough as nails.”
He shakes his head. “No, my mirlo, she isn’t. Just because someone looks and acts tough doesn’t mean they aren’t a mess on the inside.”
The name he gave me, mirlo—blackbird—dances in my heart. I try not to trip up over it but I can’t help grinning. “Okay, well, you’re tough. I doubt you’re a mess inside.”
“You’re right,” he says with a cheeky smile. “I’m not a mess. But I can recognize the softness in others. Cut open a weathered leather chair and you’ve got feathers inside.” He looks down the street toward his car. “I should go. I’d still love to have dinner with your family, but I have a feeling that won’t be happening anytime soon.”
“What? No, seriously. My mom is having an off day. Come over tomorrow. I have to head back here to do some work, but if you drop by at like six pm, that’s enough time to have a drink beforehand. You can meet Ben too. Ben’s great.”
“And your father? Is he anything like your mother?”
“Not at all,” I say emphatically, though the article quickly crosses my mind.
“All right. Well,” he says, hands cupping my face as he kisses me softly on the mouth. My eyes flutter closed and I sink into the kiss, the feel of his tongue brushing against mine, sending champagne bubbles down my spine. God, I want to go back to his hotel with him and make everything go away. No more thoughts, no more worries.
Just his body and mine.
“See you tomorrow, mirlo,” he whispers as he pulls away. He gives my hand a squeeze and then he’s walking down the street. I stand on the bottom step and wait until his tall figure disappears.
Then I slowly trudge up the stairs and back into the house.
Chapter Twelve
Ellie
A mother’s worst nightmare.
No, Ellie thinks, slamming back the glass of wine. My worst nightmare.
She doesn’t know what to think, how to act. She knows she might be going crazy.
Like, fucking crazy.
In a way that her anti-anxiety medication can’t handle.
Because there is no way in hell that that’s Javier’s son.
It can’t be. There’s no reason for that to be him.
She doesn’t even know if Javier has a goddamn son.
And yet, she looked into those eyes and that’s all she saw.
A ghost from her past in another form. A specter with a glowing amber gaze.
The front door slams, making Ellie jump. Violet has come back inside.
She knows that she was a total bitch to him and that Violet is angry. She has every right to be.
I’m a fucking terrible mother, she thinks. The first time in forever she brings a guy home, a guy she’s happy about, and this is how I act?
Why does it have to be someone that reminds me of Javier?
She has to push past this.
“Vi,” she says to her, patting the space beside her. “Come here.”
Her daughter glares at her in that way she does so well. She knows she’s hurting inside at the way she acted. Violet gets bruised so easily.
Yet another reason why she has to be careful.
Ellie needs to talk to Camden before she loses her mind.
“Mom,” Violet says, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. “I can’t believe you.”
If only you could see what I see.
“I’m sorry,” Ellie says, because it’s what she has to say. Everything she says next is what she needs to say in order to make everything okay again. “I’m…”
“Yeah, you said you needed new meds. But what am I supposed to tell him?”
“Other than the fact you just told him I needed new meds?” she says snidely, because yeah, she’s pissed off about that too. This isn’t a family where everyone throws each other under the bus.
“Look, you were being a bitch.”
“Violet,” she says, but she’s too tired to yell. And fuck, she was being a bitch. She has to own that.
She takes in a deep breath, feeling all too fragile. “I’m sorry. This caught me off guard. I wasn’t feeling well and you came home with this guy, and I guess he just reminded me of someone.”
“Mr. Smooth Moves.”
Smooth Moves? She almost laughs. Smooth never quite explained it. But he had moves all right.
That thought makes her feel like dirt on the inside.
“Mom?”
Her daughter is eyeing her in a strange way. Concerned. Ellie doesn’t know what’s showing on her face. She straightens up and shoves a handful of popcorn into her mouth, chewing while she gathers her thoughts.
“So why were you and Dad in Mexico?” Violet asks over her shoulder as she heads to the kitchen. Ellie can hear her rifling through the fridge, and when she comes back, she has another bottle of wine.
It’s an expensive one but she’s not complaining. She needs this and she’s sure Violet does too. She watches her daughter as she unscrews the cap and fills both their glasses before settling down in the armchair. She’s watching her with such wariness that Ellie feels like a caged animal.
“Well? Why? I never heard you mention it before?” Violet is as stubborn as her mom. Ellie would normally feel a twinge of pride, but right now it’s hindering to be put on the spot like this.
You used to be so good at lying.
“As I said, it was a long time ago.”
“Like, how long? 2013”
That gets Ellie’s attention. How did she guess the year so exactly?
She watches Violet.
Violet watches back.
Goddamn it, she’s becoming wary of her own daughter now.
She’s asha
med at that. Her daughter is everything to her, has been everything. Violet doesn’t deserve this.
Ever since she found that letter telling Camden that his father had died, she’s been on a razor-thin edge. She still doesn’t know who sent the damn thing or what it means.
Camden doesn’t know either.
He wants to believe that it’s someone he knew, maybe an old client, someone still in the community of Palm Valley that somehow found out where they lived and wanted to let them know what happened.
Anonymously.
Of course, Ellie isn’t too sure.
“Around then. That’s a good guess,” she says carefully.
Violet shrugs. “Well, you said Ben was three…”
Ellie relaxes a little. Violet’s mode of deduction is fast. She’s always been quick.
God, she’s proud of her daughter.
“Me and your father went to Veracruz to see an old friend of ours. Ben stayed with your Grandpa Gus in Gualala.”
She hates having to lie like this, but it’s better than the truth.
The truth that Ellie and Camden have spent their children’s lives trying to protect them from.
The fact that they aren’t who their children think they are.
They’re bad people.
Criminals.
Especially Ellie. Camden only did what he had to do in the past to protect Ben, then later to protect her. Camden has always been the good one.
Ellie has always been the bad one.
A wounded animal that can’t stop biting back.
But that’s not who you are anymore, she reminds herself as she sips the wine, ever so grateful for the numbing affect. The person you were is long gone.
She has to remind herself of that.
Often.
And when the memories become too much, when the past creeps into her veins and blackens her heart, that’s when the medication kicks in.
It keeps the past at bay.
She hasn’t conned anyone in twenty years.
Hasn’t killed anyone in twenty years.
Life has been a set of three parallel paths.
She’s managed to stick to the middle one.
Knee-deep in the grey.
Violet doesn’t stick around for much more conversation and soon gets up to leave. Ellie feels bad. She knows her daughter wants to talk about Vicente. She knows she’s absolutely smitten (she can almost feel it—god, it brings her back), and that she should be happy that her daughter is glowing for once.
She has to make the effort to move past this.
Vicente is not Javier’s son.
He’s far too tall and rugged looking. Javier was on the shorter side and as slick and elegant as a snake. While Vicente’s mannerisms are similar, there’s an impulsiveness to him, a roughness that would probably worry any other mother.
So when Violet pauses before heading up the stairs and asks, “Is it okay if Vicente comes over for dinner tomorrow?” Ellie knows she has to say yes.
She just has to.
Luckily Camden will be there. Camden will see. When he gets home tonight, she’ll explain to him about Vicente and what she thinks, and he’ll dismiss it all with a kiss as he usually does. She can say the craziest things but her husband will always keep her grounded.
But tomorrow he’ll meet Vicente and then he’ll probably agree with her.
That he looks like he could be Javier’s son.
“Of course,” Ellie says to Violet through a forced smile.
And if he tries anything, I’ll kill him.
It stings to know she’s not even joking.
Chapter Thirteen
Vicente
I shouldn’t take a gun to the McQueen’s house. Though my father would be proud, my mother would chide me for being a terrible dinner guest. Expensive alcohol, yes. A gun, no.
But I have a feeling that in that elegant old Victorian, a multitude of guns lie hidden along with a multitude of sins.
Ellie—Mrs. McQueen—knows who I am.
At least, she thinks she does.
And I made no effort to dissuade her.
I want her to think it.
I want her to slip up.
I want her to know I have the upper hand.
And unlike my father, I always will.
The meeting went exactly as I hoped it would. She was on edge, afraid of me, afraid that her daughter might go down the same path that she did.
And what path was that? The path where she chose her husband over my father?
I’m not upset about it. If Ellie hadn’t married Camden, my father would have never married my mother and I wouldn’t be here. My father, in the end, made the right choice just as Ellie did.
The choice that brought Violet into the world.
To be fair, when I try and imagine Ellie with my father, I just see two writhing snakes trying to bite each other, reminding me of the symbol caduceus. The pairing seems like it would have been a mistake from the start.
But for whatever she’s worth, she got under his skin. She knows things about him that I don’t.
Things I want to know.
She beat my father at his own game.
And won.
I wash my face in the bathroom sink and glance up at myself in the mirror. I do have my father’s eyes and his brow, but everything else is all me. I run my hands through my hair, pushing it up and off my face, and quickly trim down my beard, attempting to look more respectable.
I can hear my father’s voice in my head, telling me to be more clean-shaven, to dress better.
Fuck it. For once in my life I’m actually going to follow his advice.
I shave my beard off until my face is smooth, slick my hair back, and then grab a black linen suit jacket and white dress shirt from the closet, pairing it with a pair of dark blue jeans.
Now I can almost see him staring back at me.
I grin at my reflection.
Time to go have some fun.
I grab my .45 and shove it in my ankle holster, grab a bottle of booze, and then I’m out the door.
It’s foggy again, making for a wonderfully dramatic drive up the hills and into the clouds. This city just screams noir from every shadowy crevice. Part of me wonders if I could actually settle down here. I for damn sure wouldn’t be a photographer, but if you know the right people and make the right deals, you could rule this place with ease. It’s too liberal. Its citizens are used to progress and safety. I could burn the city to the ground and no one would see it coming.
I find parking off of Haight and walk the block over until I’m standing in front of their house.
Violet, my blackbird, my mirlo, she has no idea at all.
Kept in the dark all these years.
Locked in her head.
Made to think that her intuition has been lying to her when it hasn’t at all.
One day she will find out the truth.
It might be tonight.
It might be next year.
But when she finds out who her parents really are, that’s the day she’ll find out who I really am and what I’m doing here.
What I’m doing with her.
I hate to say it, but in some ways I hope that day never comes.
And if it does come, I hope to god she won’t hate me.
Not hate you? I counter. She’ll want you dead.
Santa Muerte.
I take a deep breath and head up the stairs.
I don’t even have to knock at the door before it’s flung open.
Violet grins at me, white teeth against bright red lipstick, and then her face falters for a second.
“Your manly stubble is all gone,” she remarks, marveling at me.
I rub my jaw. “Believe me, you’ll thank me later when you don’t have rug burn between your thighs.”
She giggles at that, shutting the door partially so she’s out here with me. “Shhh,” she says, leaning in for a kiss. “Remember, this is meet the parents part two.”
&nbs
p; “Horrible movie.”
She giggles again, and now I realize she’s a bit tipsy. I try and look over her shoulder and into the house. “Is everyone here? Your brother? Your father? Are they armed?”
She laughs, smacking my shoulder. “Stop it. But yes. They’re here.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“You know it’s not you I’m worried about.”
And yet she should be.
She straightens her shoulders and opens the door wider, then we both step inside.
It smells like cooking. Pasta sauce and garlic. A deep male voice is laughing.
We go down the hall and step into the open kitchen that overlooks the dining table, the settings already in place.
Her father and Ben stand side by side by the counter, a box of spaghetti beside them. Her father has a beer in his hand and is showing something to Ben on his phone, probably something on YouTube. It sounds an awful lot like goats screaming. Whatever it is has them both laughing, although Ben’s laugh seems stiff and forced and purely for show.
They both look up when we approach them. In my hands I have a bottle of the most expensive sipping tequila I could find. It’s nothing like the stuff at home, but I figure it will help win favors and fuck things up a bit.
Speaking of fucking things up, the look on Camden’s face is priceless. The same slightly gaping mouth and wide eyes that his wife had when she saw me. Only he recovers quickly. So quick that Violet doesn’t seem to notice.
But I did. I give him a half-smirk while she makes the introductions to them both.
Camden McQueen is taller than I thought he would be and in great shape, judging by his shoulders and arms. Every visible inch of him is covered in tattoos, which is no surprise. Based on the old photo I saw, I expected him to be wearing glasses, but he’s not, and grey and silver threads through his dark hair. He’s lucky, like my own father, that hair loss doesn’t seem to be an issue.
Ben is a miniature version, and by miniature, I mean he’s maybe two inches shorter. That’s about it. Otherwise, they look extremely similar, down to the build and the tattoos. Violet had mentioned he’s an MMA fighter so that explains the thick neck.
Honestly, they both look like wannabe tough guys. For all their muscle, they wouldn’t last a second against me. Meatheads pound aimlessly. I’ve always got a strategy.
